Fate, Change, Debt
by nightgigjo
Summary: The fates have not been kind to this spoiled princeling - but then again, they *are* trying to teach him a lesson. / Companion to/continuation of "A Way Forward". TEMPORARY HIATUS while I move this summer. Sporadic updates possible; regular updates to return 3 September 2016.
1. Prologue and Ch 1: The Path, Pt 1

**Author's Note: This fic has been edited a bit after a long hiatus. The first chapters - the ones that were already posted - have been edited down quite a bit. The first four chapters constitute what will be the first chapter in full if/when I post this elsewhere.**

**Those of you who read the old version will notice quite a few threads missing from this iteration, which I hope will make the storyline much clearer.**

**Quick note on content: I do not write very racy stuff. I don't really gravitate towards pairings, either. There may eventually be some pairings, but they 1) might not be permanent and 2) have not yet revealed themselves to me. If I rate a fic M, it is for dealing with hard issues, and I will endeavor to list any content warnings at the outset of each relevant chapter.**

**I welcome your comments, suggestions, and questions! Come find me at nightgigjowrites AT tumblr DOT com, and say hi, if you like.**

* * *

**Prologue**

Thence come the maidens mighty in wisdom,

Three from the dwelling down 'neath the tree;

Urth is one named, Verthandi the next,-

On the wood they scored,- and Skuld the third.

Laws they made there, and life allotted

To the sons of men, and set their fates.

("Völuspá [The Prophecy of the Seeress]", from the _Poetic Edda_)

Three robed figures sat in the shade, gazing into the still waters at the foot of the great ash. The tree, Yggdrasil, stretched forth throughout the heavens, connecting the Nine Realms, and these women, the Nornir, tended it, while weaving the destinies of men and gods alike.

There were dappled reflections on the pool, not of leaves and the canopy above, but of worlds, of lives. The one most central in their view belonged to a pale, raven-haired youth, twice-royal son of a king, daughter of a queen, rival to a prince. Troubled. Troublesome.

The oldest of them pointed, and one small life at the edge of the water came forward easily, willingly, and placed itself next to the one they'd been studying. This image was curious, open, steady.

_Yes_, they nodded. _Fulcrum_.

The youngest among them indicated another: it was shimmering, brightness both magnified and obscured. It drifted, serene and purposeful, not once faltering in its direction.

_Yes_, they nodded. _Impetus_.

The third considered long, before adding another life. She knew, perhaps better than the others, that her choice would seal all, that each of the others would be distinctly, irrevocably changed. Then she noticed an image, quiet and dark, intent and watchful. It was sending out pale, glowing tendrils, touching other images, cautiously, as though to discover their shape or meaning. She looked at the life inquiringly, and it pulsed gently, curious, silvery bright threads reaching out to the constellation the three were creating. It turned its attention to the third robed figure.

_Yes_, it pulsed. _Catalyst_.

**Chapter One: The Path**

In the guise of a young soldier, Loki paused to look out over Asgard, in the last moments of sunset. The sun was fading, but the moons were already high and bright, and the city below him glowed with the fires of feasting, revelry, and raucous ribaldry that was the hallmark of victory to these people. His people, once. But they had ceased their mourning after the minimum nine days, although the passing of a prince demanded much more.

Then there had been another victory in 'glorious' battle, paltry by anyone's standards, and not much worth celebrating. His brother, certainly, would be there. He was a great one for carousing, when he wasn't moping after that..._Midgardian_. The face of the 'soldier' flickered briefly, bronzed skin waxing pale, though most might have assumed it a trick of the moonlight. Loki's mind left off the topic of unsatisfactory relatives, and concentrated instead on the task at hand. He was on the watchtower, the best vantage point in the realm, and the time was rapidly approaching.

As the last vestiges of sunlight faded, leaving the velvet night overhead, the soldier took one last look at the place that had been his home. He had an appointment to keep.

Resolutely, he turned his back on his adoptive homeland, walked purposefully across the tower platform, turned a corner, and vanished.

The glamour dropped the moment Loki stepped through the hidden portal. There was no need to disguise his identity here - even Heimdall couldn't see into these little recesses in the fabric of reality. They were very like the curtained alcoves provided for lovers' trysts - narrow, shadowed, and perfectly suited for all manner of clandestine dealings, ever concealing goings-on from a prying eye.

They also connected to a number of tenuous pathways between the realms. He'd made use of these numerous times - to make his way to Jotunheim and the Svartalfar, and to take himself off whenever deals went sour.

That had been happening rather too much for Loki's taste - so often thanks to the traveling freak show calling themselves the 'Avengers' - but this time he'd managed to escape their notice as well.

His brother's show of mourning had been quite spectacular - simultaneously intense, brooding, and poised - a true prince of Asgard, behaving exactly as the masses of Asgardians expected. Loki had never believed for an instant that looking the part would make Thor worthy, or able, to rule. But that was the way Asgardians thought. Give them a blue-eyed golden idol, and they'd bow down and worship. It didn't matter if their leaders _were_ honest and forthright, as long as they _appeared_ to be.

Well, Loki knew quite a lot about keeping up appearances.

He walked quickly to the shallow end of the alcove, gently extending a pale, delicate hand until the tips of his fingers brushed the edges of the next portal through. The sensation was much like running one's hands over an ancient inscription, save that the slivers of reality had the feel of various metals, rather than wood or stone.

The one leading to the Chitauri homeworld slithered. Loki shuddered, hoping he hadn't been noticed. As the archer had observed: doors can open from both sides.

The sleek sensation of his chosen corridor passed under his touch, and Loki's habitual smirk widened into a toothy grin. This path would take him in the direction he needed to make contact with his...appointment. And it might be nice, Loki reflected, to drop in on the only one of his children who could - and would - speak to him.

With images of his eventual triumph clear in his mind, he stepped forward into blackness.


	2. Ch 1: The Path, Pt 2

...oooOOOooo…

The three Nornir gazed over the shimmering waters at the destiny they had woven for the young prince. As they watched, the constellation became clouded with the activity of smaller creatures, like midges swarming at dusk.

_They come_, the third one intoned, _for the debt that is owed_. The others nodded understanding.

_He will pay_, said the first, _but not in the currency of their choosing_.

...oooOOOooo…

The golden crest of a helm glinted in the pale light, as the hulking reptilian form lifted its head. Tracking the errant, arrogant prince had been ridiculously easy - no one else in Asgard possessed such strong ability, and the peculiar quality of Loki's heritage made his every move stand out: the crackling electricity of a Jotunn that nevertheless left the echoing hum of Asgardian magic in its wake. The moment his hand had brushed the outer reaches of their realm, their reality, Loki had given away his position, and his purpose, to his unrealized, unforgiving enemy.

Loki had not, contrary to reports, been directly responsible for the decimation of the Chitauri forces - her forces - but the hubris of Laufey's runt had been the cause of their slaughter at the hands of a thoroughly inferior foe. One shot had wiped out most of the warrior drones, and a number of the more capable soldiers. The few survivors had limped back to their homeworld, ship damaged beyond salvage, and the energy emanating from the scorched and fractured hull had brought sickness and death to countless others of their race before the source of the disease had been discerned, and a force field erected around the entirety of the wreckage to contain the worst of the contagion.

The numbers of the Chitauri were diminished, but their rage had intensified. Where once they would have relied on strength to overwhelm their foe, they were forced now to forge a new plan of attack, one of stealth and cunning. The adoptive Asgardian had always had friends, or at least reinforcements, preferring the cowardly use of magic or retreat, rather than risk death in open battle.

She had learned much, watching Loki work. She would give him that death using his own weapons - stealth, deception, slow-working poison. It would be a genuine pleasure to watch, to beat him at his own games.

Sitting alone in her chamber, she motioned to her door-guard to enter. He dropped his gaze, as was proper, before approaching her presence.

"Mistress," he rumbled, kneeling.

She leaned down to place a scaly finger under the soldier's chin, drawing his gaze up to meet hers. "You will need an upgrade" she said, placing in his upraised palm a small glistening creature, like a metallic millipede, which coiled itself onto the flat of the soldier's hand and integrated its circuitry into his own.

"Go," she said, casting into his mind Loki's image. "Hunt your quarry." The newly-minted assassin nodded, eyes glinting with a blue fire as the upgrade reprogrammed his cybernetic components to prepare him for the task she had set.

...oooOOOooo…

Gaining entrance to the trail he sought was precisely like opening a book with thick, velvet curtains for pages. Loki let the folds fall shut behind him, and wended his way along a twisting corridor. The passage was just tall enough for him to walk, and only slightly more wide than his narrow form. Where the Bifrost was sleek, sparkling with the reflections of numerous stars, this path was dark, littered with jutting corners and edges, more rough-hewn obsidian than polished opal.

The whole of reality was crazed with cracks such as this, and yet no one of Asgard knew of their existence, let alone traversed them as often as he did. They were his secret, yet another way in which the mind of Loki outstripped those of the boring, boorish kin with whom he'd been cursed. It had taken years to even find them, and a full century of walking to know them all. They had never bothered to wonder if such paths even existed, and they had the audacity to call him lazy.

The defile gradually widened, until it joined a larger corridor, one that would eventually connect to a well-traveled way that was forbidden to Heimdall's sight. A guardian among the living had no business with the paths of the dead.

Loki, however, had something of a special dispensation - at least if he went to see his daughter.

As he climbed down into the smoothed, worn passage, something niggled at the back of his mind, the minutest of vibrations on spider-silk, telling him that he was watched. It could very well be his daughter's attention on him, he mused. He was, after all, entering her territory. Loki sought to push the premonition aside, but a hint of doubt lingered, undermining the magician's confidence. With a glint of worry in his eyes, Loki slowed his progress, pacing more deliberately as he stepped on the wider way, to Hel.


	3. Ch 1: The Path, Pt 3

...oooOOOooo…

The soldier didn't once consider what was to happen to him, once the mission was completed. It would only distract from the task at hand.

He followed the slim, pale figure as he threaded his way through the secondary passage, while the upgrade formulated the necessary tactics for his mission. The soldier, formerly a straightforward being, was downloading an education in stealth and deception, and the remainder of his conscious mind was impressed. Before, he would have been baffled by such suggestions, and the fact that the upgrade's parameters did not seem to include killing his target.

Indeed, his mind considered, he would have named the feeble, scaleless Asgardian _prey_.

The upgrade's probability algorithm completed its calculations just as his quarry stepped into the wider passage and dropped into a crouch. The soldier felt a sharp pain in his left arm, and stared as he watched a tube-like metallic ridge forming on the surface of his cybernetic exoskeleton. His arm wrenched around, rigid and perfectly straight, until his hand, fingers splayed, was level with the kneeling figure's head, flattened palm directed at the base of the pale man's spine. The Chitauri felt a surge of power run through his body, coursing from the tips of every extremity except the motionless hand. The energy pulsed as it reached his immobile left forearm, centering just below the medial joint. The upgrade mechanism, which had couched itself in his palm, began to glow slightly green, slithered between the armored plates at his wrist, and burrowed its way to the nexus of energy at his elbow. The hand, he saw, was shrinking, warping, falling away.

Time distorted and slowed as the soldier watched, blinked in disbelief, as he was drained of the last of his life-force, and a cybernetic projectile emerged from his hand.

...oooOOOooo…

The way of the dead smelled like a grave: cold, earthen walls crumbling; floor betraying no footstep. Loki's senses pricked again, as soon as his foot touched the dark and moulding passageway. This time he was certain; it was his daughter's mind, alert to his presence, harsh and forbidding as ever. Her voice came into his mind without form, giving him her words without sound.

_Do you dare tread the paths of the dead?_

Loki crouched on the ground, steadied his mind, shutting out all sense of his surroundings. _I seek passage through Helheimr, and audience with my daughter._

_So, _the voice replied, _you remember your kin, now that the time of trial is begun?_

Disconcerted, Loki hesitated. He had come so far, and complete triumph was almost in his hand. _But_, his thoughts shakily betrayed him, _my plans are nearly come to fruition._

_There are...other plans, _she said, faltering. _I will not see you._

Loki was incensed. _What?_ _I am your kin. I am your father!_

The voice that replied was faint, weary. _It is, _she said sadly, _not by my command._

Loki saw, then, in his mind, a vision of three Jotunn maidens, tending Yggdrasil, the Worlds Tree, weaving the fates of men, and of gods.

_Nornir,_ he said, voice cracking in sudden terror.

The connection broke, and Loki's sense of his surroundings rushed to the fore. Instinctively he spun on his heel, just as a slight _click_ sounded behind him.

A sharp pain in his side brought him back to his knees. He felt as though he'd been shot, not by an arrow, but by some kind of living thing. Whatever it was, it pierced his side, slowed, but did not stop. Whatever it was did not rely on mere momentum to do its damage.

Loki stared, disbelieving, at the horror from which that wretched projectile had emerged. What once must have been a formidable Chitauri warrior was rapidly decomposing from the outside in, limbs, head, torso crumbling as he watched. In seconds, all that remained was a hollow metallic tube less than a meter long, glowing green and emitting a low, steady hum.

Horrified, Loki tried again to stand, to flee, stumbling over his feet as he backed away from the remains of his supposed assassin. A strange impulse overtook him, to walk toward the heap of dust, to pick up the gleaming metal tube instead. He stood for a moment, motionless, mind and body at war, the one urging retreat, and the other heeding some unknown order to advance.

_The three stood, watching. The first leaned over the pool, placing a finger on the surface of the water below Loki's image. The water trembled, and began to swirl. The vortex was no larger than a pinprick, but the speck at its epicenter was the purple-black of deep space._

A smooth, glittering tunnel opened behind the magician, but Loki did not see it. Mastery over his own body consumed all of his concentration, his will bent on overpowering this unseen force that strove to make him its puppet. A corner of his mind mocked his efforts to resist this enslavement, reminded him that he was already similarly obliged, bound to a master who would not hesitate to punish him, severely, should he fail in his current endeavour.

_NO_, the rest of his mind screamed, _I would rather DIE._

The sudden jolt of terror broke the stalemate. Fear and panic drew up unknown reserves of will, and with the last of his ebbing strength, Loki forced his unwilling feet backward. The rent in the fabric in the universe drew him in, and he fell into darkness.


	4. Ch 2: Strays, Pt 1

**Chapter Two: Strays**

The dog's claws scrabbled and scraped on the surface of the tunnel - more a chute, really - as he slid downwards through the starry blackness. The outline of another figure bumping along just ahead was occasionally outlined against the dim glow. The being's body flopped, as though injured or insensible. The shape of it said _Man_. The scent of it said _Wizard_. What else the dog's nose was picking up - something flint and frost - was thoroughly confusing, but canine interest and human compassion weren't too far apart, in this case.

The tunnel branched ahead of them, and the prone being jolted down and to the left. The dog followed, sliding along in utter silence. He tried to catch up to the falling body, but it was impossible to go faster without losing control.

For an age, they fell and followed, in that timeless place.

Then, abruptly, it was over, and the dog fell into something yielding and crackling. He opened his eyes on a canopy of trees, bare branches glistening in slanting sunlight. The dog sat up, shook himself, and sneezed. He discovered, to his canine delight, that he had landed in a drift of dried leaves. He rolled over and wriggled in the leaves, tongue lolling in pure joy.

_It might not be my world_, he thought, _but it feels like it. It feels like home._

Then he caught the scent again. It was a blast of wintry cold, mixed with the smell of magic. The black dog followed his nose a dozen meters through a copse of spindly trees, finally stopping to sniff a bundle of black cloth in another pile of leaves. The cloth was wrapped around a body, which had a long mane of dark hair, and a thin face - pale, chilled, eyes closed. The dog sat back on his haunches, looking about him. The bundle of cloth sighed a split second later.

A shaggy-coated foot pawed at the stirring body, and the dog gave the man's face an experimental lick. It tasted...alive, but cold. The eyes on the face opened to reveal light eyes, glassy and disoriented, but in an instant they focused, sharp and piercing. "What," the face said, voice quavering slightly, "what..."

The man tried to push himself up into a sitting position, but was unable to keep himself upright. The dog slid his broad back under the near arm and sat down, letting the dark-haired figure slump over onto him for support. At first he held on, then shrugged the dog off, and tried to struggle to his feet. He made it halfway up again before he fell, landed on all fours, and heaved.

_This man isn't going to die,_ he thought, _but he's still in trouble._ The dog waited patiently for him to finish being sick, and when the man raised his head again, the creature gave a sharp bark, and thumped his tail. The man looked at him quizzically, then shook his head. He paled again at the motion, but kept control of himself this time, and managed to hoist himself onto his feet. Swaying slightly, he gave the dog a disdainful look, and staggered away.

There was no reason for him to waste time helping this young man, who obviously didn't want any. But he was intrigued by the man's strange scent: powder snow and mountain heights and the electrical tang of magic.

Whoever this fellow was, he was magical, and he was _injured._ He let out a snuffling, dog-version of a sigh, and trotted briskly after the stumbling figure.

A/N: OK, so I fudged the chapters a little bit. This was originally in "A Way Forward" (and may be there yet!), but it fit logically in this place, so I moved it. Or copied it. Or whatever.

Flow should be better now, a bit. And this extra mini-chapter will get things lined up again.


	5. Ch 2: Strays, Pt 2

...oooOOOooo…

Maintaining consciousness was more difficult now than Loki had ever found it. Even in the aftermath of the fiercest battles, or the most profound tortures, he'd been able to keep his head, or at least shelter part of his mind from the onslaught of fatigue and despair.

Now, simply remaining upright and stationary took all the efforts of his not-insignificant will. Something - whatever it was that had felled him in the tunnels before Helheimr - was battling for control of his body, as well as diverting all reserves of his strength to its own purpose.

The thing itself seemed bewildered as to what that purpose actually was. The parasite had gained control over much of his body, and seemed to be concentrating on his legs and feet. He staggered about, stiff-legged, lower limbs carrying the rest of him along with every step he couldn't countermand. Loki could briefly regain control, but if he dropped his guard in the slightest, he was spun about, as his feet headed off into a completely different direction.

This exasperating, erratic foolishness, as much as anything, fueled his rebellion against it. He could sense the projectile as it slowly wormed its way through his searing flesh, headed apparently for his spine. There was an uncomfortable thought. It had that much control over him already, and it wasn't yet attached to anything vital.

He thought to catch hold of it, and fling it away with magic, or cause it to disintegrate, or find another host, but no power gathered around the spells. In desperation, he tried to make a grab for a stick, sharp rock, anything with which he might _dig_ the blasted thing out, but his fingers only twitched slightly, his arms refusing direction.

Nearly delirious with fatigue, he had all but forgotten the huge black animal trotting steadily behind him. Although he'd cursed it, ignored it, even thrown a stone or two in frustration, still it shadowed him. It kept its distance, to be sure, but it was always attentive to him, and never very far.

As another lurching step propelled Loki forward, he collided with some sort of invisible barrier and fell abruptly onto the packed earth. The creature was on him in an instant, glistening nose prodding him gently to _get up_. Loki shook his head in puzzlement as the thought dropped unbidden into his mind, and struggled again to his feet.

Loki turned to examine the creature. He wondered briefly if this was one of Fenrir's get - the idea of rescue at the hands of a grand- or great-grandchild was wryly amusing. The creature certainly was large enough to pass for a dire wolf. Its eyes, a silvery blue, looked at him straight on for a moment, then began to paw at the ground near Loki's feet. It was then that Loki realized that his legs had stopped moving of their own accord. They seemed _content_ to be here.

He looked down to where the wolf-creature was digging, and saw the trace of magic just under the drifted leaves. It was a delicate thread, as spider silk under the dry brush, or a line of mould in a decaying tree. The magician followed the magic upwards from the forest floor, and began to examine the barrier in earnest. It wasn't invisible, but he doubted any but a powerful mage like himself could have seen it. There was a slight golden shimmer, which might seem, to any lesser being, to be sunlight streaming through a break in the canopy. Except that sunbeams didn't curve.

The wolf-creature was sniffing around the edges of the enchantment, and at once looked up excitedly at Loki, wagging its shaggy black tail. It looked _happy_, of all things.

Loki stretched out an ivory hand, and cautiously brushed the barrier with his fingertips. The resulting surge of magic that knocked him back to the ground was some of the purest, most electrifying he'd ever felt. It coursed through him in a torrent of power, then flashed back through the barrier and away into the distance.

It had...examined him. Someone very powerful would very soon know where he was - and have a clear idea of his weakened condition.

Loki had never been keen on confrontation, particularly when his opponent had him at this much of a disadvantage. Taking caution to be the better part of valor, the magician threw a quick glance around, and, seeing no one, started to walk away. As though stuck in a bog, his feet refused to budge. Whether he attempted to saunter, amble, or sprint, no matter how Loki tried to move himself, he failed. He couldn't even take his feet out of his boots.

His panic only increased at the sight of a hooded and cloaked figure striding through the wood towards him. In desperation, Loki looked appealingly at the wolf-creature, who was watching the approaching figure expectantly.

_Wonderful_, he thought despairingly. _This is just what I need._

The wolf looked at him sharply, head slightly cocked, and gave a small half-bark. _Yes_, it said.

The reassurances of a telepathic animal held precious little comfort for the prince, as he continued his futile struggle against the entropy of his lower limbs. As the figure neared, he gave one final burst of will, and one heel slid away from the barrier. With a sneer of haughty triumph on his face, Loki staggered backward, but the black wolf rushed behind him and stood, bristled and snarling. He was so startled by the creature's change of temper that as he spun to face the growling beast, he pitched over and landed, for the third time, flat on his back.

Between the impact of his head on the hard earth, and the parasite leeching the last of his strength, all Loki saw, before surrendering to oblivion, were a few wisps of dark hair framing a sun-darkened face.

...oooOOOooo…


	6. Ch 2: Strays Pt 3 & Ch 3: Transformation

Hermione stared at the fallen man. When she'd seen him standing, he had looked lean, but not gaunt, with skin the color of ivory and long, shining black hair. The face was sunken now, as someone close to starvation. His hair, too, was growing unkempt and tangled, although he hadn't moved at all since he hit the ground. As she watched, his color drained, not to the dull grey of a corpse, but to a pale, icy blue. Lines were appearing, too, on his face, raised like welts, not inflamed or red, but in the same frosty hue. A pattern emerged, markings resembling ritual tattoos, or the ridges on a dragon's skull.

Whatever magic had made him look human, it was leaving him.

She felt for the flow of any magic around her, and felt only her own. Nothing was escaping the being's body, except the blood seeping from underneath the leather jerkin he wore.

It was then that she spotted the dog.

It loped out from under the undergrowth, where it had hidden after the man fell. A huge, black dog, almost wolf-like, with piercing blue eyes.

Snuffles.

Hermione looked at the animal for some time before she spoke. The resemblance was uncanny. Impossible as it was, this creature looked so much like Sirius had in his Animagus form that she was too unnerved to make a sound. She crouched low to the ground, offering an outstretched hand for the dog to sniff. It approached incautiously and sat down in front of her, prodding the

proffered hand with its wet nose. Automatically, Hermione ran her palm over the dog's snout to the back of its head, giving it a good scratch behind the ears.

Underneath the sleek fur, she felt the tingle of magic.

The dog looked up at her and winked.

Hermione cocked an eyebrow. "Look, I don't know if you are who I think you are, but we need to take care of this friend of yours." The dog thumped its tail on the ground, stood on its feet, and waited attentively.

"Well then," Hermione said, rising, "let's get on with it, shall we?"

She reached out with her senses, but felt no human presence in the area, wizard or Muggle. Hermione cursed herself for a soft-hearted fool, very carefully levitated the body, and carried it through the wards, back home, with the large black dog following a few steps behind.

Chapter 3 - Transformation

Loki awoke to the smell of wood smoke. His eyes shot open, and immediately he felt at his belt for his dagger. What met his hand was a layer of soft gauze. He frowned at the bandage, and started to sit up.

"I shouldn't get up yet, if I were you," came a voice from somewhere nearby. "I didn't know what you were, so I only bound up your wound."

Loki's frown deepened. "_What_ I am?" he queried.

"You looked human at first, but then," the voice said, "you changed." A face came into view as a young woman knelt on the ground next to him. She was obviously young, mahogany ringlets framing a fine-boned, nut-brown face. The speckles that dotted her nose and cheeks made her

look younger yet. Her thin, plain weave shirt and trousers reminded him of that Jane Foster of whom his brother was so wretchedly fond. Loki sighed in frustration. Perfect, he thought, more Midgardians.

The woman scowled at him. "You needn't look at me like that. I stopped you from bleeding to death, but I hold myself under no obligation to do anything further for you. Behave as you wish, but if you can't at least be civil, you'll get nothing else from me."

Loki took a breath, and exhaled slowly. As much as he hated to admit it, what he needed right now was help. The pain in his innards was still increasing, though he had doubted before that were possible. He winced, and struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. "Look," he said, then gave up. He slumped back down on the earth. "I can't," he tried again, eyes shut tight in an effort to merely speak instead of shout, "I mean, I'd rather not continue on like this."

The woman hummed in her throat, thinking. "If you would like, I could help you sit up. Then we could have a proper introduction."

Loki nodded assent, and steeled himself against the pain that movement would inevitably involve. To his astonishment, the woman didn't move, but instead he rose a few inches off the ground, as though borne aloft by invisible hands, and he came to rest in a rather comfortable chair.

"Seithr," he breathed. "You are the mage."

"Witch," she replied, stiffening slightly, "but yes." She pulled up a small camp chair and sat across from him, and began absently tending the fire. "You are acquainted with magic, then? But you don't expect it of me, I see. Because I'm, what did you call me? 'Midgardian'?"

"I never said..." he began hurriedly, before she interrupted him.

"True, you never spoke," she said, "but your thoughts are quite loud, I assure you. You are a wizard, or mage, if you prefer, but something has happened to your powers. What I don't know is what you are."

Loki, to spite his decreasing confidence, fell back on bravado, giving her a cocksure grin. "Oh, I'm like nothing you've ever seen," he said, and his eyes twinkled with a mischievous ferocity.

The woman scoffed, unimpressed. "The red eyes and blue skin gave it away, I'm afraid."

"The...what?" Loki looked down at his hands in shock, and there they were, blue as day.

"Not what you expected then? No, your glamour or whatever wore off - I watched it. Look, I don't know who you are, or where you're from, but if I were going to do anything horrible to you, it would have been done by now," she shrugged. "Not that your dog would have let me, of course."

Loki's temper flared. "What...that creature is none of mine!" he shouted. Odin's missing orb, he cursed silently, this woman is insufferable.

The woman in question remained stock still, waves of cold fury radiating from her at this insult. Suddenly her voice filled his mind. Yes, she said, no one likes a know-it-all, you foolish git. You're not the only one with a temper. So come to grips with your problem, or stop wasting my time.

Reflexively, Loki reached for a spell to silence this impertinent Midgardian, but no spell came. The parasite had drained every drop of his magic. He was as helpless as the pitiful beings his brother so fiercely sought to protect. He tried to reply, but the sound caught in his throat. Any uttered word threatened to choke him with grief.

The woman watched all this, and, after a moment, closed her eyes and nodded. "I'll leave you to it, then," she said levelly, but not unkindly. She rose from her place by the fire, and walked over to the tent and lifted the flap.

Just before going in, she turned back toward him. "My name's Hermione," she said quietly, "Hermione Granger." The man remained perfectly still, eyes reflecting the flickering flames.

"Loki," he said finally, in a voice hollow and distant. "Loki, of Asgard." He stared into the crackling fire, watching the shadows lengthen with the waning daylight.


	7. Ch 3: Transformation Pt 2

...oooOOOooo…

Hermione stepped into the tent, then stood a long moment, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. Like most wizard tents, it was quite a bit more spacious on the inside than one might normally infer from its outer measurements. Hermione had never gone in for the showier varieties, which sprouted chimneys and gables and the like. Hers would pass as a Muggle tent quite easily. It was obviously large and intended for extended camping, but it was a straightforward canvas affair, of a sort often used by medieval re-enactment types: a simple wedge, with a door at each end.

The front was carefully marked with an embroidered lion in the corner of each door flap. The front door went to the front room - a sparsely furnished space, containing a large wooden table, a trunk which doubled as a bench, a rough handwoven rug and a small but sturdy cot. All explicable items, if not explicitly normal by Muggle standards, but nothing beyond the pale. The back door, however, didn't lead outside at all, but to a second, much larger room.

With a flick of her fingers she set a fairy-light aglow, which bobbed and drifted until it hovered over her other uninvited guest. "And now," she said, with a voice more sad than weary, "I think I'm owed some explanation."

The large black dog had made himself quite comfortable, having arranged a nest out of the quilt that had once been draped over her cot. At the sound of Hermione's voice, he perked up his ears, sat up at attention, and gave her a tongue-lolling canine grin.

"Okay, so it's to be a guessing game, then," she sighed. "If I'm talking to an ordinary dog, no one is here to witness how I've gone round the twist."

The dog tilted his head to one side, watching and listening. "Alright, she said, "You look just like a friend - someone I lost a long time ago. He was my best friend's godfather, and one of the last connections he had to his dead parents. A friend who was killed by his cousin. I was there; I saw it happen. What I think I'm seeing _can't_ be possible. You cannot be him."

One of the dog's ears twitched, but he didn't move otherwise. Hermione glowered. "But," she said, "if you ARE him, and you have been alive all this time, then how dare you show up here, now, without so much as a word that you were alive?" A whimper escaped the dog, who tried to bury himself in the blanket. "And if that's true, why won't you just show yourself? You're here, behind my wards. You're as safe as it's possible to be! Your killer is dead! No one has looked for you in a decade! Why won't you just turn back into a person and _talk_ to me?"

The torrent of emotion, which Hermione had pent up for so long, rose up in an overwhelming flood. War, and its aftermath, had hardened her on the face of things, but that facade was maintained only because it was regularly reinforced by the hopelessness she battled, and defeated, daily. With grim determination against insurmountable odds, she could cope. Survive. Gain strength from bitterness, use it as a weapon. The prospect of feeling something that wasn't despair was terrifying, alien. In spite of her near-conviction that this was just some strange mongrel, and not really Sirius at all, the tiniest glimmer of hope that, just maybe, it was, that it could, perhaps, be him, brought the long sunken pain of the past welling back to the surface, where it broke. And she broke.

The dog leapt up, running circles around Hermione and her distress. When she had gathered herself, and calmed down a bit, he turned to paw at the blanket again. Hermione, somewhat startled, stared as the whining dog as it tried to burrow under the thoroughly inadequate covering. He got himself mostly underneath, only to poke his head out from under the blanket and gave Hermione a mournful look.

And then, she began to laugh.

"Oh, _Merlin_," she chortled, after the hysterical giggles had lapsed into chuckles and snorts, "how could I be so ridiculously _thick_! Stay here, I'll be back," she said, stepping through a second flap at the back of the tent.

When she returned, she held up her finds for his inspection. "These will fit, with any luck," she said, tossing them onto a nearby chair. The dog gave a happy bark, as Hermione stepped back outside.

She stood there for a few minutes, breathing in the evening chill. Loki was, surprisingly, still sitting in the chair by the fire, which was dying down. From his bowed head, he was either meditating, or asleep. Hermione closed her eyes and concentrated: ah, yes - asleep. She fished a small bundle out of a basket near the entrance to the tent, and, walking quietly so as to not disturb his repose, took up a nearby branch and began to stir a well in the embers. She placed her burden, three bundles wrapped in tinfoil, in the well, and gently covered them with the glowing coals. She laid the stick carefully down, letting the tip rest just at the point where she'd buried her treasures. She turned then, and sat down on her little stool to consider this Loki.

Named after a Norse god. A trickster figure, known for cunning and deceit as much as playfulness and mirth. She saw little of mirth in this man, or whatever he was, but much of what it could turn into, if a person suffered enough torment. He reminded her of Draco, oddly - wit and prickles and boasting, all set to protect any tender spot. _Bring me the hard-luck cases_, she thought wryly, _I'll set them aright._ A soft chuckle escaped her throat, and he stirred, eyelids opening a crack to reveal the eerie red glow beneath. A strange thing, that. It made her think of something she'd read, long ago, but she couldn't quite place it.

A small cough from the direction of the tent caught her attention. When she looked up, she could hardly see the man standing there, dark shaggy hair and scraggly beard looking exactly as she remembered them. The welling in her eyes clouded the details, but she knew. She heard his mind, and knew him. He was ragged, and tired, and completely unchanged in a dozen years' passage.

Wherever he had been, Sirius had come home.


	8. Ch 4: Campfire Meeting, Pt 1

**Chapter Four - Campfire Meeting**

From the door of the tent, Sirius looked out on the campfire's dying glow. There was very little else holding back the night, save the waning crescent that already hung low on the horizon. He watched as Hermione - older, now, grown to adulthood - buried something in the remains of the fire. She sat, deep in thought, and he couldn't help being proud of the responsible person she seemed to have grown into. He wondered why she was out in the middle of a forest, living in a tent, but the ward she'd created wasn't just powerful, it was elegant. A beautiful thing to behold, even with his dog-sight. Coming upon that barrier had given him an intense feeling of hope - at least the canine variety, which felt like the assurance of a good ear-scratch - and he'd realized then that he was somewhere very like home. The magic was familiar, as comforting as the scent of leaves or the way the dust felt in his fur.

And then, the magic had turned out to be Hermione's.

He recalled the words that Hel had spoken to him: he couldn't have his old life back, could not be anywhere over which she held sway, if he were to live on. So, wherever he was, there was no Hel, or she wasn't in control of the realm of the dead. But here he was, on Earth again, in England again, and where does he land on his feet? Of all the doorsteps in all the world, it had been hers.

The fates, perhaps, were kind after all.

He'd worried so much about those children, Harry and his friends, who had been at the center of so much of the chaos that had engulfed their lives, though it had also given him a new one. And here was definitive proof of their tenacity, their brilliance - Hermione had survived to become an incredibly powerful witch.

He hoped - he prayed - that Harry was still alive here, too.

That thought brought him out of his reverie. There was so much he didn't know, and so much he had missed in, what had she said? More than ten years? There was only one way to find out.

When he tried to speak, all that came out was a small croak, but Hermione was alert at once, rising abruptly when she saw him. He couldn't see her eyes, but her voice sounded as raw with emotion as he felt. "You...I almost didn't believe," she stammered as he stepped into the circle of firelight. "How is this even possible?"

Sirius felt his eyes mist over, full of pride and joy and gratitude. "Merlin's beard, I don't know myself. But you!" He clasped her by the shoulders and stood back at arm's length, trying to see the girl he'd known in the woman before him. "Please," he said, taking her hand, "come sit, and tell me what happened!"

Hermione motioned to the camp stools, across the fire from where Loki was sitting motionless, ensconced in the chair. As they sat, she gave Sirius a quizzical look. "You don't know? Where have you been that you don't know?"

Sirius shook his head, a look of bewilderment on his face. "I don't actually know that, either. Not for certain. I'll tell you everything about it - but first, please tell me...did Harry make it? Is he...?"

Hermione temporarily laid aside her desire to know all, and took a small delight in being able to share a tiny morsel of good news. "We won. Harry won, actually. Part of Voldemort's soul had been trapped in Harry's scar, and there was a prophecy at the Department of Mysteries about them: 'Neither can live while the other survives.' Harry sacrificed himself so Voldemort would be well and truly dead. He did it for us...for all of us..." Her voice trailed off into silence. She marveled at that, still.

Sirius emitted a small, strangled gasp, but Hermione spoke up quickly. "No," she said, placing a gentle hand on his arm, "you don't understand. He came _back_."

He wasn't as thunderstruck as Hermione might have anticipated. Sirius was silent for a long moment, but it was pensive silence. "He...was dead, and came back?" he mused, staring into the middle distance.

Hermione nodded. "I still don't understand completely how it happened. Harry still won't talk about it much. He doesn't seem bothered by it, though. He's...free."

Sirius's expression was grim. "He had so much riding on him, didn't he? And what do you do, after you've saved the world?"

A chuckling sigh escaped from Hermione. "Apparently, you heal it. He tried going for the Auror squad but it wasn't right for him. He's apprenticing at St. Mungo's." She looked briefly worried, but hid it with a smirk. "Alright, it's your turn. Where have you been? I can hardly believe it's been so long, to look at you."

He ran his fingers through his hair and gave her a sheepish grin. "You may be more right than you know. I don't think it has been that long, for me." Hermione had that eyebrow raised again, but she was still listening, at least. He shook his head to clear it, and started again. "In the Department of Mysteries, Bellatrix pushed me through the Veil. When I landed, I was somewhere else - and still alive."

Hermione's frown returned. "That can't be. She killed you. I heard her use the Killing Curse. You were dead before you fell."

"Actually," he said, measuring his words, "there may be an explanation for that. Where I went, I...met someone, who told me that I couldn't return to my old life. That I could find a way to another place - another world, I thought. She talked of many realms that she had power over, but hinted that there might be another place where I would be allowed to live."

This was the first that Hermione had noticed the change in him - Sirius was less agitated, more quiet of spirit than she'd ever known him to be. Brow furrowed, she listened on.

"I had no idea where I'd end up," he continued. "Could have been on top of a volcano, for all I knew - but what did I have to lose? I followed my nose, and here I am. With this chap." He glanced behind him at the man he'd followed here, then looked again. "Wait," he said, bending over to whisper near Hermione's ear, "he wasn't blue before, was he?"

"No," came a low growl from the recumbent figure, "he wasn't."


	9. Ch 4: Campfire Meeting, Pt 2

Crimson slits glinted in the dark at the pair of them, as Sirius and Hermione turned towards the speaker. The sight was unsettling: although the glowing red eyes called up the magical creatures entry for the relatively harmless _ashwinder_ in the encyclopedia that was Hermione's brain, the association of man-shaped magical being and snake conjured a memory far darker. But she had sensed Loki's otherwise unrevealed feeling of frustrated powerlessness, and the scrap of humanity thus revealed was far greater than any Voldemort had retained. She respected that humanity enough not to antagonize him over his peevishness, or to pry into any less immediate causes for his distress.

Besides, most creatures bite when cornered.

Sirius, still a bit too discomfited to reply with anything other than a muffled "Apologies," turned to watch Hermione as she began stirring the embers, retrieving three blackened lumps from the heart of the coals, before building the fire up once more.

Loki, too, observed her, with palpable suspicion. "I don't know," she replied to his glower, "what you eat, or even if you eat, but you're welcome to join us."

Then the aroma began to rise above the smell of the wood smoke.

Sirius inhaled deeply, and sighed. "Hermione Jean Granger," he breathed, "you are _brilliant_," as she pulled out a trio of battered plates and forks, and began to relieve each packet of blackened tinfoil of its burden.

Hermione gave a wry smile, and indicated an insulated container just outside the door of the tent. "I've only butter and salt, over there. Would you mind terribly fetching it?" Sirius's eyes lit up, and he fairly rushed to get the promised items.

The Asgardian craned his neck to watch an unappetizing brown lump land on a piece of dark red crockery. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sight, but his stomach rumbled mutinously. The scent of it was earthy, charred, and somehow slightly sweet. "What," he sneered, as Sirius reached over to hand him the plate, "is this supposed to be?"

"Jacket potatoes, and the only foodstuffs on hand enough for three," said Hermione. It didn't show in her voice, but a slight glint in her eyes betrayed her irritation. She reminded herself this was a person in quite a lot of pain, and continued, with a more neutral expression. "It's not ambrosia, perhaps, but it feeds the body well enough. Break it open, put a little butter and salt on it if you like."

Loki wondered if this witch knew more about him than she revealed: the mention of ambrosia hit quite closer to the mark than he'd expected. He (and his now growling innards) remembered his relative weakness, and saw the necessity of both food and manners. "Ah," he said, prodding the steaming vegetable with a claw-like fingernail.

He prised out a bit of the center and examined it. The others had fallen to already, the man consuming his portion with obvious relish. The woman was taking more measured mouthfuls, the fork glistening golden with the melting butter.

Loki resisted the urge to tear into the cooling spud with his elongated canines, instead placing the tidbit of fluffy white flesh on his tongue with deliberate caution. The result was surprisingly intense. This unassuming foodstuff tingled with flavors: a dry, charred sweetness mingled with a metallic tang and something that tasted like soil smelled. Loki held the plate away from himself, frowning. "Why does this taste," he said, half to himself, "like it came out of the ground?"

At the slight choking sound, he looked up, to see the woman staring at him harshly, while the man's face grew from red to purple, contorting with suppressed laughter. After several seconds, a guffaw erupted, and the woman turned her scowl on the chortling man. Giggling helplessly, the man nearly collided with her before he saw her stern expression, and began gradually to gain control of himself. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, chuckles escaping between his words, "but he's right, you know." She sputtered in protest, but the man shook his head. "No, no, no, it's not an insult," he said, turning towards him, "was it?"

Loki had the sense he should look abashed, although he wasn't certain why he would do such a thing. "I...did not expect it," he said, instead, holding onto what distance his remaining shreds of dignity could afford him. "I meant nothing but what I asked. It is," he said, with another prod at the vegetable, "completely unlike anything in…" he trailed off. Rather than talk about any place he might once have called home, he fell into silence once more.

The man's expression sobered, and after a darting glance at the woman, he leaned until his face came into Loki's full view. "I see," he said, although Loki doubted seriously that he could. "To answer your question, potatoes do grow underground." Loki didn't deign to meet his gaze, but gave a small, recalcitrant shrug.

The woman breathed a sigh, and said something low under her breath. After a moment, she spoke again, in a whisper, to the man next to her. "I should tell Harry you're here," she said. "We'll need his help anyway. Excuse me."

The man pulled his chair around to face Loki more directly, although he didn't do anything else to get his attention. "They're better with butter, you know," he said conversationally. "Of course, if you don't want it…"

In the battle of wills, Loki's stomach had been steadily gaining ground over his pride, and the stranger's sally proved to be the decisive blow needed to end the skirmish. Loki closed his eyes in defeat, and shook his head slowly. "No," he said, "it's fine."

"Suit yourself," the man said, somewhat sadly. "Although it's gone cold by now, butter won't melt. Here," he said, taking the plate from him. Before Loki could protest, he had split the vegetable in twain, taken a pinch of salt from a small urn, and sprinkled it over the top. "That should help," he said, proffering the dish.

"Th-thank you," Loki stammered, shocked at the unsettled feeling that was rising in him, along with the anticipation of eased hunger. Dispensing with manners entirely, he grabbed one of the halves and gnawed at it. The corner of his mind still dedicated to sarcastic comment had plenty to say about this barbaric behavior, but his stomach drowned it out, for the most part, and the man across from him said nothing against it, either.


	10. Ch 5: Assistance

**Chapter Five - Assistance**

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, his head and brain aching with fatigue. Leaving the Ministry for an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's had been the best thing, of course, but that didn't stop the long hours of a Healer's day from being just as exhausting as chasing down the last of the Death Eaters. It was also less likely to induce the same adrenaline rush that had made the Department of Magical Law Enforcement such an exciting place to work.

Still, he was a Master of Death. He much preferred to be preventing it, rather than inflicting it.

Between his reputation as a war hero and Rita Skeeter's scathing biographies, reception of Harry Potter, Auror, had always been a mixed bag. More often than not, his presence on an Auror squad had endangered his comrades, usually much more than the protection he provided. He found that his main objective, on any assignment, was to protect people, and when that had occasionally extended to keeping a captured Death Eater from dying of their Auror-inflicted wounds - well, some of his fellow Aurors weren't particularly content with that. Ron never had a problem, of course, but Ronald Weasley was one of Harry's best friends, and understood better than just about everyone how much a death - any death - meant to Harry.

He could look Death in the face, and accept it for what it was, but he was duty-bound to do something about it, no matter the cost.

The cost, it turned out, had been higher than he'd anticipated. The friends he'd made at the Ministry - at least, the ones who were relatively well-positioned - hadn't been particularly cordial to him since the incident with the Lestranges. One of the last raids that Kingsley Shacklebolt had spearheaded before being elected Minister for Magic, at the end of a months-long manhunt for two of Voldemort's fiercest supporters, had come to a close in a ramshackle little place in the back of nowhere, when one spell or other had set the place on fire, trapping Rabastan Lestrange inside. Harry had insisted, quite correctly, that the man should be retrieved from the flames. If he died, they'd have lost their one good lead in finding his brother, Rodolphus. He could also have set up the blaze himself, to fake his death and make another escape. But that wasn't what had concerned Harry when he'd heard the man's panicked screams, and he'd realized that Rabastan, in that instant, was facing his own death. He cared nothing for the case, the law, or the just imprisonment of one of Voldemort's most evil henchmen. _No one deserved to die that way, no matter what crimes they'd committed._ He couldn't let that happen to anyone.

Harry had always been as rubbish at hiding his feelings as he was at lying.

He, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had shown compassion for a Death Eater. For a man who'd tortured countless people, and killed who knows how many more, all for the cause of blood purity, in the name of the darkest wizard who ever lived.

He didn't blame them for not understanding. But that didn't make the cold shoulders any easier to live with.

...oooOOOooo…

Hermione let out her breath in one swift gust the moment the tent flap closed behind her. Sirius's return had stirred up far too many old memories for his presence to be a comfort yet, and there had been too much to take in about this day already - at least if she was trying to do it alone.

Thankfully, she didn't have to.

She pulled the trunk out from under the table, jiggling the thick metal latch. With a heave she lifted the lid, and fished around in one of the many pockets sewn into the side of the lining. She had applied Undetectable Extension Charms to most of them, but one she had kept unextended. She slipped her hand into it, and pulled out a small, shiny oblong.

The spell itself was relatively simple, but it had taken years to perfect the disguise. Talking to a makeup compact in public was simply too out of the ordinary for the two-way mirrors to be usable anywhere there were Muggles about. The advent of smartphones had changed all that. Muggles were now thoroughly used to seeing other people talking to someone's face on a rectangular screen; the only challenge had been to transfigure the spelled mirrors to look like one of these sleek technological wonders. Hermione pulled her treasure out from its place of honor in the trunk, and whispered gently onto its surface: "_Harry._"

Moments later, a familiar face appeared: a slight man in his thirties with erratic black hair, which was showing the first hints of greying at the temples, and not quite covering a jagged scar on his forehead. He looked tired, and concerned. "Hi," he said, rubbing his eyes briefly as he adjusted a pair of thick-framed spectacles on his face. His eyes focused behind the lenses, and a look of concern creased his face. "What's wrong?"

_Sirius is back._ The words sounded so strange in her mind that she couldn't so much as form them. She went with the lesser of the afternoon's two oddities. "I need your help," she said, focusing on the more immediately pressing matter. "I've had...a visitor, and he's wounded. He looks like he's been shot...with _something._"

"Muggle, or magical?" Harry said, then backtracked. "No, wait, person first, then the thing that injured him."

Hermione frowned. "I think he _is_ magical, but something, maybe this injury, is draining his magic."

"Wait," Harry said, peering at her closely, "if he's a wizard, why haven't you brought him to St. Mungo's?"

"He's magical," she said, "but he doesn't seem to know about the Wizarding World. It's...it's odd. You'll just have to see him, I can't explain.

Harry's look was guarded, but only on her account. They'd known each other too long for them to doubt each other. "I'm almost finished here," he said, after a moment's pause. "I'm supposed to meet Ron after shift," he said. "Can I bring him?"

Hermione considered for a moment. "It'll be fine. He might even be able to help. I'll meet you at the wards," she decided. "I have someone else here...someone you'll have to see to believe."

Eyebrow cocked at her cryptic words, Harry gave a nod, that was nevertheless full of misgivings. "I'll tell Ron to meet me there. Sounds like the sooner we're there, the better."

Hermione's expression was cautious too, but there was a gleam in her eyes that Harry hadn't seen in a long time, which could have been hope, or excitement. Or fear. He nodded once more, and with a swift "See you soon," he broke the connection, slipped the mirror in his pocket, and ran for the nearest fireplace.

"Ron Weasley, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he said as the Floo powder hit the flames.

Ron's face quickly appeared in the heart of the fire, with an indignant, "What? You're not working late again, are you?"

Harry shook his head. "No, I'm on time for once. Just a slight change of plan. Meet me at home?"

Ron frowned at his friend's lack of explanation, but nodded. "Right. I won't be much longer here. When will you be done?"

"I'll be there shortly - in, say, a quarter of an hour," Harry chimed.

"Right," said Ron, and his face disappeared in a puff of green smoke.

Harry hurried back to his desk, cleared away the detritus of the sandwich he'd gobbled down while tending to this evening's reports, grabbed his cloak and flew back to the fireplace. "Number 12 Grimmauld Place," he said, and vanished with the green flames.

...oooOOOooo...

Hermione met them at the base of an ancient oak, her long cloak pulled tight about her in the late evening chill. Ron and Harry arrived within seconds of each other, Apparating into the small clearing in the surrounding thicket, the closest completely secluded place to Hermione's camping spot. Harry put his hand on her shoulder, giving it a friendly but worried squeeze.

Ron stood back a little, more agitated than his friend. "Hermione," he blurted brashly, "what's going on?"

Her eyes darted back and forth between them. "Someone needs help," she said, "and you're the only two I could really trust with this."

The two men shrugged acceptance of this explanation, and Hermione turned, signaling them to follow her. The edge of the ward was only a few strides away, and once they had walked through, she turned to the two men and told them about the injured man she had found.

Ron gaped at this. "You mean you just took in a strange man, who may or may not be a wizard - who may not even be _human_?"

"Actually," she admitted, "I'm almost positive he's not human. But who or what he might be isn't easy to determine, and he's not particularly forthcoming about himself."

Harry was looking at her intently, reading his friend's mood, if not her mind. "Clearly you're worried about him," he said, looking Hermione straight in the eye. "Why?" It was a serious question, not a challenge.

Hermione glanced back and forth between them, the two men in the world who'd known her longest, who knew her best. "I worry about this man, Loki, because of his despair. It rolls off him. He is injured, by something that has stolen his powers, and he wants to die, but whatever it is won't let him." Her look of concentration deepened into her habitual frown. "He's like Draco was, end of sixth year. He's driven, but misguided, and subject to a power that is consuming him. And my greatest worry," she concluded, "is that I don't know what this power is or where it comes from. Or how to fight it."

This time Ron spoke up, frowning. "How do you know he's not a threat?"

Hermione shook her head, reaching up to twist one of the short curls near her temple. "He's too injured to be dangerous at the moment. Besides, he has...a very convincing alibi." She bit her lip, hesitating, "Someone _else_ came here with him. Someone I...trust."

The question 'who' was obviously on both men's lips, but she remained mute, face tight with strain, as they passed through the second set of wards. Once they did, the camp popped into view. The campfire had died utterly, the clearing wrapped in shadows. Small sounds of movement issued from the tent, along with a sliver of light. Hermione hung back from her own front door, just for a second, before touching the tent flap. Before she could lift it, it opened from the inside. A man of middling height, face cast into deep shadow, was turned away from the door, saying something to another person inside.

"It's all very well, she's back now, with help for your ungrateful hide, most likely," he chided, before turning to the trio at the door. "I got him indoors out of the chill, and into the light you'd need to check on him. He growled like a grumpy hippogriff, but the bandage looks none the worse for wear."

Ron stepped forward cautiously, giving Hermione a stunned, incredulous look. Harry remained frozen to the spot. Hermione took his arm, carefully watching his face. "It's him," she said quietly. "I didn't dare believe it at first, but...see for yourself."

Harry nodded mutely, and let himself be led into the tent. The glow of a lamp illuminated the small chamber, falling mostly on the cluttered table. A long, lean person was stretched out on the small cot, face turned away from the light, head propped with pillows, shins dangling over the end of the narrow bed.

On a small camp chair nearby, sat a ghost. Or someone who should have been a ghost.


	11. Ch 6: Intervention

**A/N:** Small content warning for this chapter: description of Loki's injury, while not particularly gruesome or gory, might bother some.

Also: I toooooootally oopsed and posted chapter 6 before chapter 5. Where is my brain! Not here! Ugh. I'm posting Chapter 6 in the right place now, so you're getting _All The Updates (TM)_.

**Chapter Six - Intervention**

"Harry," the ghost said, tears welling up in his eyes. "Merlin, I can't believe it's you."

In shock, delight, and disbelief, Harry's mouth moved soundlessly, every thought and emotion jockeying to be the first spoken. Finally, a strangled laugh won out. "I should be saying the same thing!" he exclaimed, unable to say the man's name, or even think it. It was just so impossible. He stood stock still, shaking his head in a daze, bewilderment and joy spreading across his face in a grin.

"Never mind me, Harry," Sirius said, "we'll have time. I'm not so sure about this fellow."

The bundle on the cot turned his head, and piercing red eyes shone out and met Harry's green. His face, skeletal and sunken, was a dull blue-white. Harry had no idea what this person's species was, but he was as near death as any patient he'd ever seen.

"He took a turn for the worse after you left, Hermione," Sirius continued. "I was teasing him, a bit, to keep both our spirits up. I thought I'd gone too far with it, that he'd stopped speaking to me," he explained. "That was when I realized it'd gotten so much worse, he'd stopped talking altogether."

Hermione frowned in concentration. "Loki," she said, in tones of gentle reproof, "this is Harry. He's a Healer, and the most brilliant wizard I know. If anyone can help, he can."

Harry gave Hermione a sidelong questioning look, to which she only nodded affirmation. She was reading this Loki, though no one else could hear him. His presence, though, was strong - far more forceful than any Muggle, on a par only with wizards and witches of great power. A magnificent being, he must have been - brought low by some unknown force. Harry cleared his throat to speak, and addressed the startlingly blue face as he would any witch or wizard in his care at St. Mungo's.

"You're wounded, Hermione said," he began, sitting down on the camp chair, and beckoning to Ron and Hermione to bring more light. Loki grimaced, but moved his hand to his side, clawed fingertips just touching the white gauze. The blood seeping through the bindings was dark, nearly black. "I want to look at this, but for now it may be better to keep it bound. Can you tell me what was it that injured you?"

The man on the cot shook his head almost imperceptibly. Hermione swore under her breath. "You'll die if you don't let us help you, you know," she said to Loki. She turned at Harry's inquiring look. "He doesn't know what hit him," she says, "but he won't be clearer than that."

Harry looked the man in the face. "I'll do my best for you, I promise you that," he said. "You can't know how lucky you are, for Hermione to have found you. What I can't figure out, she can. Take a chance, and trust us. You have literally nothing to lose."

Loki's eyes flickered from Hermione to Harry and back again, and he cocked an eyebrow. Then a jolt of pain caught him unawares, and he grimaced and closed his eyes. Hermione's expression lost its focus as she concentrated on whatever images Loki was projecting. "It...it's like nothing I've ever seen," she said. "Part living creature, part machine. He didn't see what hit him, but it was propelled out of a tube, like a blowpipe. But," she shuddered, "what propelled it used an entire being's life-force to do it." Horrified, she turned to Loki, who only stared bleakly in return. "'Chitauri,' he says. Though what that means, I have no idea."

Harry nodded decisively, keeping his eyes on Loki. "Do you know where this projectile is now?"

The man nodded weakly, and Hermione said, "In his back, near the spine. It's slowing now, but it has been moving, on its own."

"It sounds like magic," Harry mused. "Maybe we can track it - see if it left a trail through the wound."

Loki blanched at this, his face a sickly blue porcelain. "We only have to uncover the wound to look at it. It shouldn't hurt beyond the discomfort of removing the gauze," Harry reassured him.

The man seemed unconvinced, giving Hermione a slightly petulant look. "Sorry," she said, "we must." Hermione turned to Ron and Sirius, who had been hovering nearby in awkward silence. "Would one of you," she asked, "hold up a light, so we can get a proper look?"

Ron shuffled his feet uncomfortably, muttering something about standing guard outside. Sirius, too, seemed unnerved, but took hold of himself and stepped forward, grasping the lamp and raising it above Harry and Hermione's heads.

It had been years since they'd worked together, in the aftermath of those last battles, tending the wounded together with Muggle first aid until the Healers could get round to those less seriously injured. But as soon as they bent to their task, the years rolled away, and Harry and Hermione fell easily into sync with each other. Sirius looked on in awed silence, watching them, and the shadow of a man under their hands.

The pair of them worked swiftly but deliberately, wetting each layer of gauze before pulling it away, gingerly, until the entire bandage was removed. The wound glistened at the outer edge, but within the surface was dark, cauterized by the projectile's passage. It seeped, but didn't bleed freely. That had least kept this man from bleeding out within minutes. Whether it had saved his life remained to be seen.

Hermione laid a hand on the man's forehead, a gesture of comfort, combined with a calming spell. He had to be sensible for them to determine what was going on. Loki's eyes flashed angrily at the outset of the spell, but went cool and aloof as it took effect. At the same time, Harry, raising his wand, muttered a detecting charm, and an intricate network of lines, like capillaries, glowed on the surface of the open wound, and lit up the passage inside the body, searing blue against the swollen purple flesh.

Loki lay perfectly still, but the corners of his eyes twitched with the strain of it. The parasite hadn't sensed the danger yet, but it would soon. It was integrating itself into his body - the needling, pricking sensations at the base of his spine were beginning to move upwards, testing for weakness, for access. All this Hermione received, and relayed, as Harry pulled a small flesh-colored roll out of his Healer's bag. He uncoiled it, a spindly thread with flattened circular ends, and sent the smaller end snaking into the wound, following the illuminated tracework to its source. Sirius watched as Harry applied the other end to his spectacles, which began to flicker with the same traceries of light. "I see it," he said, eyes focused on the backs of the lenses. "It's...it's taking hold of him, or trying to."

Harry started to speak again, but Hermione cut him off. " 'Do what you must, but don't speak it aloud,' "she snapped. "I think," came her own reply, seconds later, "I think it's gaining awareness."

Harry's mouth tightened into a thin line, as he focused his entire being onto this one task. To remove it, he'd have to cut it free; not pick off one tendril at a time, but all, simultaneously. Besides, if this thing was cognizant of an attacker, it might also react to being detached. Unbidden, a spell came to Harry's mind. He gulped. The risk would be high.

He bore down on the projectile with all his will. The room, Hermione, Sirius, and the prone figure of Loki all faded from view, until the form of it filled his mind, and all other concerns were shut out.

Harry took one deep breath, and exhaled.

"_Sectum sempra_."

Hermione's hand clenched involuntarily when she heard the spell, but she held herself motionless. Harry stood stock still, perspiring heavily with concentration, his lips moving soundlessly as he wove spells to shrink and draw out whatever had felled Loki. The long, fleshy tube came out slightly ahead of a metallic creature. Writhing, flailing threads, tentacle-like, projected from every surface of its segmented body, reaching toward the wound from which it had been retrieved. The thing gleamed, oily gunmetal smeared with red-black blood.

Harry flicked his eyes towards Hermione once, and she took hold of the creature at once, and it slowed its frantic waving. Harry's voice came through low and soothing, the chanting almost a lullaby. She watched, transfixed, as the gaping wound faded from violent purple to gentle lavender, and flushed again with new blood, bright with promised healing. The wound itself began to close, from the inside out, and when the mouth of it closed, it left only a thin line atop a seam of puffy, reddened skin.

The room heaved a collective sigh. Harry removed his glasses, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and sat down to check his patient's vitals. Loki was still gaunt and pale, but he'd lost some of his deathly pallor. He was conscious, and breathing. It was early days yet, but he was still alive, and that in itself was a mercy.

Harry looked over at Hermione, who was still levitating the creature between her hands. "What do we do with it?" she asked.

Harry thought for a moment. "It's alive, at least partially," he pondered aloud. "See if you can petrify it, so we can look at it later. I need to rest a bit, before we start."

Hermione nodded, and signaled to Sirius to hand her a jar from the littered potions table. She moved the creature into the open container and petrified it, sealing the lid. Potential threat contained, Harry and Hermione slumped exhaustedly down on the bench together, opposite their patient.

Loki turned his head toward the pair, giving Harry a weary look, red eyes dull and only just open. When his gaze flickered to Hermione, she came over and perched on the edge of the cot. "Would you like something, a spell, to help you sleep?" she asked. Loki shook his head slightly, and fell into shallow slumber, even as Harry answered her.

"No," he said, "too dangerous to give him anything to help him sleep, even a spell." Harry looked the man over, at Loki's wasted flesh sunken over his once lithe frame.

"Of course not," Hermione said, shaking her head dazedly. "I don't know where my mind was."

"Probably taking a well-deserved rest," Sirius remarked dryly. He sat down on the nearby bench, hands perched on his knees. "Merlin," he said gently, with an expression of awed contentment, "when I found myself back here, in spite of everything, I thought nothing could astonish me more. And here you are, performing wonders before my eyes. I couldn't be more proud."

Hermione blushed slightly, but Harry shook his head. "St. Mungo's wouldn't approve most of this, I'm afraid. As an Auror, I continually ran into situations where basic orthodox healing just wouldn't do, there wasn't time or the right potion to hand, or it was too dangerous to Apparate to safety. That's when I started using jinxes and charms for healing." He looked sheepishly at Hermione. "I never could remember as much as you, so I made do with what came to mind first."

"You give yourself far too little credit," Sirius replied staunchly. "Taking a jinx intended to torture and maim, and using it to save a man's life?" He laid a consoling hand on his godson's shoulder. "That takes a compassionate and courageous turn of mind few people can claim."

Harry's cheeks flushed at this, but he made no demur. Instead, he turned inquiring eyes on Sirius. "How is it you know this man? Do you know where he comes from? What kind of being he is? I've never seen anyone like him before."

"Nor will again, possibly," Sirius shook his head. "It's a long story, but one Hermione tells me you'll believe. I followed him here, as Padfoot, from the paths of the dead. It was," he sighed, "after I passed through the Veil, alive." He settled onto the bench next to Harry, and told his tale, how he'd wandered through crowds of invisible ghosts, shades from the Nine Realms; his interview with Hel, ruler of the dead; the chance he'd been given at new life.

"And so I followed him, because he smelled of magic and cold, of all things. I felt - I still feel - that it's my duty to watch out for him, that it was this reason Hel sent me out from her domain." Sirius shook his shaggy head, in awe of the very memory of these events. "And then," he continued, "wonder of wonders, I ended up here, and Hermione found us both. The rest," he concluded, "you know."

The three of them looked at each other, and at Loki, before Sirius shrugged. "Truthfully, I have seen something like him, before. One of the shades, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, of a being much like him, although taller, and covered in frost. Hel called them the Jotnir," he breathed, clearly disturbed by the recollection. "I don't know if that will help you. It may be that name means nothing in this world."

Hermione looked contemplative, and said nothing. Harry just nodded. "It may help, you never know. For now, though, I think we should get some food, and some rest. In the morning, we'll see if Loki can be moved, and if he can, I'll take him home with me."

Sirius looked up expectantly. "Did you ever get out of Grimmauld Place, Harry? I know I left it to you, as my godson, but I hate to see you living someplace so unhappy."

Harry's mouth widened into a sly grin. "Oh," he said, with a mysterious twinkle in his eye, "I'm quite happy with where I live. You should come with us tomorrow, and see it. Hermione can Apparate you, straight there."

Harry cast a concerned eye towards his patient, who'd shifted slightly in his sleep. "Don't worry," Sirius said, "You two go get something to eat, and relieve Ron from guard duty. I'll watch Loki."


	12. Ch 7: Transition

The erstwhile surgeons stepped outside into the night air, with a single backward glance spared for both their patient and his minder. The years at Hogwarts had prepared Harry and Hermione, Muggle-born and -raised as they both had been, to expect all kinds of surprising and inexplicable occurrences. Nevertheless, "Harry's godfather back from the dead" with a side of "possible alien" were daunting events to accept, in or out of the Wizarding World.

They were still digesting all this when they were accosted by an impatient Ron, who'd had more than enough time to stew about it. "Bloody hell, Hermione!" he exploded, face showing flushed and red in the light of his wand. "There is no way that can really be Sirius in there," Ron exclaimed, as he looked appealingly from Harry to Hermione and back again, "we all saw him die! With the Killing Curse!" His face ripened to violet as they watched, astounded. "And that...that thing?" he ranted, gesticulating towards the tent, coming up almost on his toes in his agitation. "I may not have gotten a N.E.W.T. in Care of Magical Creatures, but that is nothing like anything I've ever seen!" His voice had nearly risen to the level of shouting, but when his eyes came to rest on Harry and Hermione's stricken faces, he forced it down to a harsh whisper. "I expect you have a reason for taking them in, but I'm not going to just stand here in blissful ignorance." He put his heels back down to the earth, crossing his arms and standing firm on both feet. After taking a deep breath, he gave his two best friends a stern, worried glare worthy of Molly Weasley. "I want an explanation, before this goes any further."

Hermione looked from Ron's face to Harry's, before slumping onto one of the makeshift benches around the fire pit. "Of course I'll explain, Ron." The shadows around her eyes deepened, weariness falling into exhaustion. "I know you're just worried for me," she admitted, "although I obviously trust myself more than you trust me." Ron started to protest, but she held up her hand, face cautiously apologetic. "No, sorry, I don't mean to make this about us just now," she clarified, patting the seat next to her in invitation. Harry dropped on the end of the bench, facing her, eager to get the story himself. Ron shook his head vaguely, leaning against a nearby tree instead. Hermione reached up into her tangled halo of dark hair and began twisting a piece, her face a mask of concentration. "You'll want the whole of it, so I need to start at the beginning. This fellow, whatever he might be, I found just outside my wards, prone and injured. He was accompanied by a large black dog - a dog I recognized." She looked up to each of them in turn, searching their faces. "You both know that I've been under scrutiny from the Ministry for quite some time." Her hands dropped into her lap as she straightened. "As a result I have...developed certain skills that would meet with official approval no more than your unorthodox healing methods, Harry."

Bewildered looks crossed the two men's faces. Harry's settled into calm patience, with a certainty that all would be revealed in time. Ron was scowling, pessimism and distrust roughening his features. Hermione gave an embarrassed grimace, and went on. "I developed a way of passively gathering people's thoughts, at least their stronger emotions. It's the reason I chose to help that man - why I took both of them in: I can sense their thoughts. More their attitudes, really, but it's the same effect." Harry's eyebrows were slowly rising into his hairline, but Ron's scowl had only deepened. "As for those two, Sirius is, well, genuine. Truly himself. And he's protecting this man Loki, although he knows him scarcely more than I do."

She took a deep breath. "Loki is, or was, immensely powerful. Obviously he is dangerous, or would be if he weren't so weakened. What remains unclear," she said, with slight hesitation, "is whether he's more a danger to us or to himself." Her brow creased slightly, hands twisting the tendril of hair as she considered. "As to 'what' he is, Ron," she continued after a moment's pause, " even if he's not human, at least he's a person, not a being or a creature. He certainly considers himself sentient and sovereign, so that's what counts," she said, emphatically. About whether Loki considered them human, she held serious reservations, but left that matter unspoken for the moment.

She met their gazes steadily. "Look," she said, "if someone's hurt, we help them. I knew Harry would understand, without question." Ron frowned, resentful of the implication, but Hermione plunged on. "I needed your skepticism too, Ron," she said, with a half-apologetic sigh, "to be certain I was walking into this with both eyes open." The hurt on Ron's face softened somewhat, although the worry remained. "And I am certain, at least, that no other alternative has presented itself," she finished, drawing up her knees to perch on the bench, wrapping her arms around them, an unconscious effort at security.

Ron crouched on the ground in front of her, gently laying a hand on one knee. "Okay, Hermione," he said, voice even and conciliatory. "I don't understand it, but I believe you. But what will you do now? Keep this stranger in a tent in the woods until he can get about by himself?" He shot her a knowing look. "I don't think, however much you trust either of these men, that being stuck out here with them, alone, is a very good idea."

Harry leaned over and took her hand, nodding definitively when she looked up at him. "Besides," he said with a wry smile, "if Loki's going to be my patient, I should be able to keep an eye on him. I was already thinking of taking him to Grimmauld Place, once he's conscious enough to agree to it. You and Sirius could both come back, stay with me, and keep an eye on him while I'm out, if you're willing."

Hermione considered it a moment, then gave a slight shrug. "It's better than any idea I have at the moment, but I'm uneasy," she admitted. "I keep thinking of 'Androcles and the Lion,'" she explained, staring into the darkened remains of the campfire. "Will Loki thank us, I wonder, for removing the thorn?"

Loki moved in and out of consciousness, with dreams completely unlike any he'd ever experienced. Delirium, born of blood loss and fatigue, warped the products of his mind's eye, and he plummeted down through layers of images, like falling through the paths of Yggdrasil, descent settling into visions of excruciating mundanity, where he meandered through dim, dull passages and trudged endless moving staircases. What he saw had the solidity and clarity of memory, yet every sight was new. Always he sought to move upwards, to escape the bog of circuitous paths he was forced to navigate, but each time he'd thought he'd reached the pinnacle, his foot inexplicably trod, not up to the topmost landing, but down the last stair to the bottom.

After what felt like days of wandering, Loki slumped down onto the stairway, utterly defeated. Numb with despair, he sat for some time, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. The rage that had fueled him was, if not gone, then so far distant as to be unreachable. He had no desire to compel him to live, and no power to help him die. And so he sat here, alone - alone, as he had been his entire life. Other, excluded, set apart, but for no higher purpose, and to no successful end. Odin had rescued him from death by exposure, only to sentence him to preordained failure. His every impulse to please, to demonstrate his ability and his worthiness, had only ever met with indifference, if not vehement disapproval. But at least disapproval was something, and it had fed him, where lassitude had left him empty. It had been his chief nourishment, at a banquet for kings.

And then he had discovered the full extent of his gifts. The magic that had altered his appearance, keeping his true heritage secret from all but his mother and the All-Father, had grown in him, and Frigga had seen and encouraged it. But his all-consuming goal of acceptance from his father grew even more unattainable with this discovery: _seithr_ was not numbered among the manly arts, and so Odin continued to express his displeasure with his second, adoptive, son. Disappointment ripened into bitterness, and Loki's anger at each slight grew, until he no longer desired approval from his father, but mastery over him.

Gone. It was all gone, now. He was mortal, as every Asgardian and Jotunn was in their way, and he had millennia to live, and he had lost even his last comfort, the power that had hidden him, protected him, and served his will, when nothing and no one had looked kindly upon him. Even that last refuge was denied him. Alone with only himself, in his monstrous true form, Loki lay on a rough cot in the tent of a Midgardian witch, whose life was as to him as a mere insect's to her. He was entirely at the mercy of a people whom he had so disdained that he had felt nothing for the myriad deaths resulting from his failed attempt to gain what was his by right, the Asgardian throne.

Barren of emotion, Loki lay in the dark, and closed his eyes on what his life had become.

* * *

**A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting! This required a bit of editing, which sadly resulted in a slightly shorter chapter than I had originally planned. The next, though, may be slightly longer because of it. **

**I will be traveling this Saturday (weather permitting), so this next update may come late as well. I will attempt to post no later than Sunday, though.**


	13. Ch 8: A Grim Old Place

**Chapter Eight - A Grim Old Place**

Loki awoke to sunlight streaming through the open tent, and the cold, wet imprint of a canine nose at the base of his neck. He shuddered at the sensation, sentencing the owner to an eternity in the Void. Rather than shattering with fear, the creature ventured instead to plant a slobbery tongue on Loki's face, which resulted in an even louder and more vehement cursing. At this near-shouting, the face of a red-headed man popped in the doorway, observed the scene, and popped back out again, the wretched animal vanishing after him.

Shortly thereafter, the witch appeared, along with the black-haired healer she'd brought to him last night. Their faces were stupidly open and concerned, thoughts impossibly easy to read, neither one betrayed any fear or revulsion. As the significance of this fact dawned on Loki, a gnawing uneasiness spread through him, undermining his scorn with an increasing dread. What power must they possess, if they, lowly beings that they should have been, could look on his monstrosity without so much as blinking?

As in answer to his unposed question, the woman sat on the cot next to him, and held a hand to his forehead, while the man drew out a long carved wand, letting the end of it hover just above what remained of the wound Loki had carried. He didn't dare to sit up and look himself, but the flesh felt more secure, if still tender. The man nodded satisfactorily, and turned to the woman, who made a similar gesture. As one, they moved to face him.

"You're making a good recovery, by the look of things," the man said, replacing the wand up his sleeve. Automatically, he took up Loki's wrist and laid two fingers just below the joint. "Wherever you're from, you have a pulse, same as we do, and it feels steadier now than when I first examined you." Loki looked askance at the man, when he failed to recall the event to which the man referred. "You were unconscious at the time, if that worries you. I wouldn't expect you to remember."

"I…yes," Loki replied, voice cracked and raw with fatigue and disuse.

The woman heaved a relieved sigh. "Oh, good, you can speak again. I'd worried there might be side effects from that creature."

Loki turned his head slightly, to take in her face. She had dark circles under her eyes, as from a long vigil. He was so slow right now, too slow to be quite himself, but this enforced torpidity had, oddly, given him the time to notice small details. Her pupils dilated and retracted, examining the details of his face with a critical, analytical eye. A fierce and calculating intelligence burned there, behind her eyes, and for a split second there was recognition, for both of them, of that shared quality.

The moment passed as soon as it had come. "I think you could be moved," came Hermione's punctilious assessment as she turned to Harry for confirmation. "I imagine you'd prefer to recuperated somewhere a bit more hospitable than the middle of a forest," she continued, giving Loki a wry look. "Harry has offered to let you stay with him, as he has slightly better accommodations." A slip of a smile passed between them, and Loki was at once on guard, suspicious. He studied the witch's face, but found it an incomprehensible mask.

Then he met Harry's guileless gaze: Neither hint nor twinkle of unspoken plan, no flared nostril of disguised contempt, nothing but patient expectation of a response, and a calm, professional interest. It was enough to reassure Loki, although the feeling did not go so far as trust. "I will accept," Loki replied, wheezing with the effort of sitting up. As he did so, he felt the support of the woman's magic, easing the strain of movement for him, though he had made no demand of her. A fleeting thought, of how suitable these two would be as servants, flitted through his mind, and he caught her stare again, haughty and forbidding. No, their abilities were useful, certainly, but they would resist subjugation with every one of those talents. The realization put the thought out of his mind completely.

"Good," the woman gave a curt nod, though whether to his acceptance of their offer or to his understanding of their nature, he could not tell. "We'll see how well you move around of your own, to decide on the safest mode of travel."

The man - Harry - was examining the wound again, and declared it closed enough to attempt standing. "You are healing quite quickly, you know," he mumbled at Loki's shoulder, as he placed himself in a position to assist him to his feet, "much faster than I would have expected without potions." He offered Loki a pale, lightly calloused hand.

For the second time, Loki was arrested by the two Midgardians' complete lack of hesitation. Here was absolute confidence and security in their own power, and total absence of trepidation of any threat he might pose. These two moved like seasoned warriors, with a decisive grace. And neither would live much more than a century. How had they learned such skill in so little time? In spite of this overwhelming sense of disbelief, Loki kept his expression carefully neutral, pausing only a moment before taking the man's proffered hand, no intention to actually rely on the healer's assistance. Instead, he was half-hoisted to his feet, again by a magical force.

After gaining his balance, Loki released Harry's hand and insisted on walking without help. He grimaced as he gingerly tested out the new connections of muscle and nerve, where that projectile had bored a hole through his body only the day before. Harry and Hermione stood at a small distance, but kept their attention trained on him, in case he should falter. The back of Loki's mind was having a field day at his expense, deriding his weakness, mocking their overtures of friendship.

When he stepped cautiously out of the tent and into the crisp autumnal air, the other two men, red- and raven-haired, were startled out of intense conversation. The younger, red-headed fellow stared, clearly suspicious, but the raggedy, older man broke into a broad grin, and advanced on Loki in easy strides. "I see they patched you up well, you long lout," he barked.

Loki suddenly scowled, looking around the campsite in confusion. "That wolf creature," he snapped. "It isn't here?" There was a quick exchange of glances, and subdued chuckles from multiple directions. "Why?" Loki growled. "What's so funny?"

The shaggy, dark-haired man leaned forward, and shook Loki's hand. "That's me. Name's Sirius Black. Pleasure."

Retrieving his hand from the unwanted grasp, Loki narrowed his eyes to squint at Sirius. Sure enough, as he peered through half-closed lids, he detected a faint glimmer surrounding the man, a shifting, subtle tone of earthy gold, with hints and flashes of brilliant flame red. Startled, he whipped his head around, examining all four of them, and each bore a differently-colored aura of magic. He couldn't believe that there could be so many Midgardians who possessed magical abilities, and that no one in Asgard knew of this. If they had, no one had seen fit to inform him. His frown deepened. Certainly Frigga would have mentioned such a fact, if it were known.

"How is this possible?" he demanded, turning on the two who had followed him out of the tent. "You, you're Midgardians," he ranted, "pathetic, weak creatures with ridiculously short lives. And yet, all four of you possess _seithr_, and wield it with a skill that you could not possibly have achieved in such a span."

Their reactions would have been drolly amusing, if Loki hadn't been on edge. The men stood gaping, for the most part, while the woman Hermione stood in thoughtful, stony silence.

The red-headed man spoke up belligerently. "Look, I don't know where you're from, mate, but if you've got magic yourself, and you're on this planet in the first place, how is it you don't know about wizards?"

"I am not from this…planet," Loki hissed, spitting out the last word as if it were venom.

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, but it was Sirius who spoke up. "That's part of what I was trying to explain, Ron. I believe I came here from some…other place, some version of our lives where I didn't die. I followed this ungrateful wretch here, Merlin help me, and I didn't stop by Earth on the way. He has to be from another planet, one of the Nine Realms, as Hel called them."

For a brief moment the color drained from Loki's face, leaving it the blue-white of a snow-capped peak, but in an instant it went a livid shade of purple. He sputtered with impotent rage before again going deathly quiet and pale. When he spoke, it was with an utterly terrifying calm. "So," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "I am abandoned."

Hermione could see Harry was about to pipe up in denial, but she shot him a warning glance, and he subsided. Without a word to him, she took Loki's arm, and led him to a place by the fire pit where he could sit, and left him there. Pulling the other three aside, she hissed at Harry, "Are you certain you want to do this? You see how difficult this is going to be. This hurt may not heal."

Harry's expression was pained, yet determined. "Of course it might not heal. I still have to try."

Hermione looked at the faces of her three friends. Both Ron and Sirius stood united behind Harry's grim determination, their loyalty to him overriding even Ron's suspiciousness. They would none of them leave Harry before the task was seen to its end.

"Good," she nodded, a slight smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. "You won't be alone, then."

Nodding to Loki's slumped figure, she beckoned them all to take up places around him like the four points of the compass. She knelt in front of Loki, to look in his face. "We need to take you to Harry's house, it's safer there. Will you come?"

The fire in the red eyes had fallen, and betrayed no hint of the thoughts behind them. "Do I have a choice?" he said, expression glazed and distant.

Hermione held his gaze, and laid her hand on the back of his. "There is always a choice."

—

In the end, Loki acquiesced, and they Apparated together into the courtyard of Number 13 Grimmauld Place. The ancestral home of the Noble House of Black had been completely uninhabitable when Harry had found himself in want of a place to live after the end of the war. Kreacher had returned to the house after the Battle of Hogwarts, but his stewardship of the place had improved little, since no living person had been in residence. By the time Harry decided to move in, the ancient house-elf looked so brittle and frail that Harry felt it his duty not to ask anything of him at all. When Kreacher asked, he would simply say "I trust your judgment on what should be done." Kreacher got no other response from him, and so chiefly kept rodents and other vermin from the stores, and drove boggarts and pixies out of the furniture and the drapes.

Shortly thereafter, Kreacher died, imparting his desire to be laid to rest with the generations of house-elves which had served the family. Harry, unable to conscience adding another head to the grisly display in the hall, opted instead to remove the plaque, and bury the preserved heads with the body of the old, faithful servant.

Doing this proved to be exceedingly difficult, and would have been completely impossible had the house next-door not come up for sale. The elf-heads, like the portrait of Walburga Black, had been attached using a Permanent Sticking Charm, so that no power, Muggle or magic, could remove them from the wall to which they had been fixed. With the fortuitous listing of 13 Grimmauld Place, Hermione had stipulated that, if the elves could not be removed from the wall, then perhaps the wall itself could be taken away. Harry had leapt at the idea, and the purchase was made.

After ensuring that nothing structural was at risk, the pair of them had set to work, and the plaque had came down with a considerable chunk of plaster behind it. A small pass-through was left in the wall between Numbers 12 and 13, but the protective wards laid down by some Black ancestor or other had remained, gleaming with a faint oily sheen, like a greasy pane of glass between the two houses.

They had buried Kreacher, then, after removing the Preservation Charm that had kept his body from decomposing, along with the plaque - heads, plaster and all. It seemed strangely appropriate to inter part of the house itself with one who had lived in it, and been devoted to its inhabitants, for so long. Their part of the bargain was kept, and Harry called on all his friends to help get the place ready for non-pureblood habitation.

So when Sirius Apparated into the enclosed gardens of Number 13, he assumed Harry had found himself a Muggle place to live. He was astounded, moments later, after walking through the back door of a solid brick row-house into a plain but serviceable kitchen, to see Harry and Hermione open both doors of a huge antique wardrobe, revealing a door that led into another house altogether. The pair of them ushered Sirius through first, while Ron and a sore and grumbling Loki trailed behind them.

Sirius stepped out into a bright and cheery hall, with a dark, familiar-looking stair winding its way up to his right. Away to the left was a large gathering place, full of mismatched stuffed chairs and oddly-shaped side tables, surrounded by walls of gleaming bookcases. There were two sets of them: the ones towards the back of the room were deep-set and tall, filled with leather-bound volumes, undoubtedly with leaves of parchment or vellum. The shelves on the side wall, to the right, were neater, more compact, and home to many more smaller books, which were variously cloth- or paper-covered, many of which had shiny, if slightly foxed, surfaces. On the tall windows to the left, painstakingly patched and repaired, were the curtains that had hung in the front room of Grimmauld Place, the house which had never been a home to him.

Amazed, he turned on Harry with a bewildered expression. "Why in the world, of all the things in that wretched old place, would you burden a new house with these ratty, moth-eaten, horrible old drapes?"

Harry stifled a chuckle, and clapped his godfather on the shoulder. "I plan to get rid of them, but I just haven't gotten around to it yet." The stunned look on Sirius's face won him a broad grin. "Welcome back to Number Twelve," Harry beamed.

"But," stammered Sirius, "how in the world did you manage it? I thought this place cursed to the core!" He looked at his godson with new eyes, slightly discomfited by the sudden, to him, change in the place that had been such an integral part of his hellish upbringing. "The portrait…" he said, turning around to orient himself to these known, yet unknown, surroundings. He pivoted on the spot, turning automatically to face the door through which they'd come. "That…" he trailed, as understanding dawned.

"We couldn't counter the Sticking Charm, so we took out the wall instead," Hermione supplied from the bottom of the stairwell. "It was easy, once we worked it out. The charm only went as far as the edges of the frame, but we cut a door-sized hole just to make certain."

"It seemed appropriate," Harry continued, "to make a door to let people in, when Walburga had done her best to keep all but pureblood wizards out."

At this, Sirius let out sharp bark of laughter, giving a wry grin to his godson. "And into a Muggle house, no less!" he exclaimed, delighted.

"Speaking of letting people in," Ron chimed, grunting with the effort of supporting the Jotunn, "give us a hand, mate?" The redhead's face was flushed and sweating.

Loki's expression, however, was one of grim determination. Pale and listing heavily to one side, he nonetheless was fighting Ron's grip on his arm, lurching forward on unsteady feet. His face had gone a sickly slate grey, and he was perspiring as freely as the man who was at least attempting to assist him. His face was closed, eyes distant, as though purposefully looking past the assemblage in front of him. Hermione shot Harry a look, and the two nodded, taking up position on each side of the gangly giant.

"Alright," Harry said, in tones that brooked no argument, "not much farther to go now. The room next to this one is yours." He took the man's left arm, and Hermione took his right. Sirius and Ron hung back and watched as the smallest but most determined people in the room all but frog-marched Loki to the spare bed in the room that had once been the library of the Most Noble House of Black.


	14. Ch 9: Triage

**Chapter 9 - Triage**

Once they had Loki settled in what was, to him, quite a shabby little chamber, the two mages left him alone. Whether they guessed or sensed his reluctance to speak, he neither knew nor cared. Loki had had quite enough of Midgardians already, and would take any respite he could get. How his brother enjoyed the company of these inferior beings, he simply could not fathom. Their concerns were trifling, their entire lives insignificant.

His body ached from the strain the Chitauri device had placed on his system, but he paid that no heed. He was no stranger to pain. Indeed, he had endured far worse than these physical twinges and creaks in the aftermath of most of the battles he'd fought, and there had been more than a few of those. Compared to the loss of his magic, the pain was merely a nuisance; the temporary weakening of his physical state, the most minor of inconveniences. Already his body was healing, growing stronger, but where he would normally tap magical reserves had known to be his for as long as he could remember, he touched instead only a profound and gnawing emptiness which enveloped and consumed him, as though he had both fallen into the Void and swallowed it. Bearing this in the midst of Midgardian mages was doubly galling: he could detect their _seithr_, and it taunted him, a desert mirage: a trickle of the first snowmelt, in sight, but out of reach. And how terribly he did thirst.

And those inward, unvoiced thoughts cursed him as deserving of such a fate. The Nornir had done this to him, had measured and found him wanting. He was sentenced, condemned, set adrift on Midgard with _seithr_ all around him, where he could sense it clearly but not make use of it.

It was with these ruminations that he stared, unseeing, at the ceiling of his room, until exhaustion finally overcame him.

The four of them gathered in the kitchen, Harry pouring the last of four cups of tea before whisking them over to the center of the long, wooden table, another fixture of Number 12 that he hadn't quite been able to part with. Sitting around it, where so many Order meetings had taken place, usually filled him with a nostalgic sadness, longing for all of his loved ones who were gone. But now, with his godfather sitting across from him, he felt a swell of comfort, and even a bit of hope. The Marauders weren't completely gone, after all.

As tins of ginger and chocolate biscuits crowded themselves around the staunch little teapot and its army of mismatched cups, Harry grabbed the sinfully ugly orange and green hand-thrown mug for himself, gesturing for his friends to help themselves to whatever they fancied. Hermione was standing at the counter, sending over plates of sandwiches. "Mine's the china cat," she called, and Sirius and Ron took the two remaining cups, Sirius choosing a chipped ivory teacup with ornate scrollwork, leaving Ron with a battered mug emblazoned "The World's Best Blank".

They sat in comparative silence for a short while, listening to the sounds of quiet chewing punctuated by the clink of spoons. By the time the teapot went around to pour a second cup, they'd begun to revive somewhat from the previous night's long watch. Harry's eyes looked a bit less sunken, and Ron's mood had perked up considerably. Sirius was still haggard, as he had been when he'd fallen through the Veil, but his eyes were alight again. Hermione took a long pull from her horrid pink china cup, where the depiction of a tiny silver mackerel tabby danced rather clumsily through an ornately painted ballroom. She glanced at it, and a self-satisfied almost-smile flickered across her face, before she turned her attention to the three men.

"So, I know as much of the story as you do," she began, hands folded on the table in front of her, looking at each of them in turn, "but what do we actually know about this Loki? What is wrong with him? He was obviously a powerful wizard, but it looks like his magic was drained by that device, or creature, or whatever it was." Her gaze alighted on Harry, and the other two men followed suit. "What do you think, Harry? How bad is it?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. "His injuries are extensive, but how much is purely physical, or a result of the direct attack on his magical system, for lack of a better term, is difficult to say. The wound itself is healing rapidly already, and may improve more once we determine if any potions are safe for him to take. His magic is definitely gone. That kind of complete loss takes a toll beyond the physical and mental. It's spiritual devastation, and the knowledge of that alone…" his voice trailed off, the grimace on his face finishing the thought for him.

Ron and Hermione nodded in understanding, but Sirius was motionless for a moment. "Yes," he said at length, "we definitely know where that kind of deprivation leads." His face was pensive, expression grave. "And I'd only lost my wand, then. If I had been completely cut off from all magic, I don't believe I'd have survived a year in Azkaban."

Harry nodded his agreement. "I'm good with the physical ailments, but I can't treat just his body, and leave mind or spirit damaged." He looked around the table at them, worry plain on his face. "I know I can count on all of you, but I still think we're going to need help."

Ron leaned forward on the table, hands folded in front of him. His expression was neutral, voice even and calm. "We're with you, Harry," the Auror said, "but you need to be careful about who you trust with this – we're treading dangerous ground with the Statute of Secrecy as it is." The red-headed man glanced briefly over his shoulder, out of habit more than necessity, but the movement betrayed his worry, even if his voice did not. "I doubt the Ministry would do much to you if word got out, but I can't promise that all of us would be above scrutiny," Ron said, pointedly not looking at Hermione or Sirius.

Harry's forehead creased with his frown, confronted with the realization that he had, again, committed himself to something dangerous, to himself and to his friends, without a full comprehension of the possible repercussions. Hermione's tendency to make waves had not endeared her to any administration, and although Kingsley was still Minister of Magic, and a friend, he couldn't protect her indiscriminately the way he could protect Harry. Ron's position in Magical Law Enforcement helped him somewhat, but Hermione's status as an independent scholar offered her no such safeguards. She would _probably_ be okay, but he hated to make her life more difficult in any respect. Sirius's safety, however, depended almost entirely upon secrecy. The sudden reappearance of Harry's godfather's was another bit of information to keep under tight rein, for the entirety of the foreseeable future. Harry scrubbed his face with his hands, fighting off both fatigue and the fear of endangering his friends because he couldn't simply allow someone's fate to befall them.

Hermione's hand came to rest lightly on Harry's arm, and her eyes were full of compassionate reproach. "Harry," she chided in a tone that hovered between fond and flippant, "you are not allowed to kick yourself because we decided to support you in this. In case you had forgotten, we aren't schoolchildren anymore." Her wry smile turned playfully self-deprecating. "Some of us are a bit nearer forty than we used to be, and completely capable of deciding for ourselves whether or not to take a risk for a relative stranger."

"Oi!" Ron exclaimed in mock-irritation, "since when are thirty and thirty-one 'nearer forty'?" He gave Hermione a playful glare, but when she just looked at him strangely, his expression turned thoughtful. "Wait," he said, hesitating, "how much do you use that time-turner, exactly?"

Hermione just rolled her eyes. "Not as much in third year, but enough. I may be thirty-one according to the calendar, but my experience is...somewhat longer than that." She shook her head as if to clear it. "My age, apparent or otherwise, is irrelevant. What we can do to help Loki, and who we have to call on for that help, is at issue here."

It was Sirius's turn to speak up. "Ron's right, Harry. Whomever we bring into this, we have to be absolutely certain of their loyalties and their discretion. Which brings us back to the beginning: What kind of help is Loki going to need? Do we even know anyone with the necessary skills?"

Harry considered this for a moment, assessing each of them in turn. "Two things we need," he said at length, "that we can't do between the four of us: determining whether or not his magic will come back, and determining the extent of his mental and emotional damage. I'm good with the physical, but I am right rubbish at handling the rest. There are experts in the latter at St. Mungo's, sure, but no one I know well enough to trust with a situation this delicate. As for the former, I can't think of anyone at all."

Hermione nodded, as if expecting this. "There are very few publications on the loss of magic at all, let alone any living authorities on the subject. What I have run across before is mostly mediaeval texts, but current scholarship seems completely disinterested."

"Something else we need," Ron interjected, "is someone to watch him." Harry turned towards him, skeptical, and Hermione's expression narrowed. Ron continued, unperturbed. "Even if he's not dangerous himself, Harry, you can't spend all night and all day taking care of this bloke, even if you do take time off work, and even between three people, that's a lot of work." Ron leaned back in his chair, resting the back of his head in his cupped hands. "And you're going to need someone who knows Potions backwards and forwards, if you're gonna try and feed any to him."

Hermione leapt at this, eyes brightening. "You have someone in mind," she said, and Ron's wry smirk told her she'd read him correctly. "I know exactly who to ask," she chortled, catching Harry's enthusiastic grin.

"I think I do, too," he confirmed, green eyes twinkling. "Luna will be perfect."

"Yes, Nev…" Hermione began, before realizing what Harry had said. "Wait, Luna?" She looked at Ron, who merely shrugged.

"We could use both of them, honestly," he replied amiably. "Neville's the one you want for knowing how to use any kind of plants and potions, nothing gets past Luna, and they're both completely trustworthy."

Hermione still looked skeptical, but Harry's grin remained firmly in place. "If they'd do it, that'd be brilliant," he enthused. "I can Floo over to Luna, and you can get Nev, right Ron?" The red-headed man rumbled his assent, so Harry forged ahead, smile fading. "Loki's magic, though," he sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth and chin. "I can't help feeling like that's the most crucial element, though - giving the patient hope, if there is any, or the truth, if there isn't. I hate not knowing, and I won't lie to give anyone false hope." He looked around the table at them, eyes frank and worried. "Is there anything we can do, anyone - anywhere - we can even ask, to try and find out?"

Hermione shook her head. "No one I know of in Britain is studying this at all, at least not in academic circles. I have a couple of contacts in Salem I can ask, but the Americans are notoriously close-lipped when it comes to research."

"What about east, then?" Harry prodded. "Do you still keep in touch…"

"With Viktor?" she filled in, chewing her lip for a moment. "We're still on good terms, though I'm not certain I could ask any favors. He's pretty well connected, of course, but I can't make any promises."

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair, immediately drawing the attention of the other three. His eyebrows crinkled together in a slightly sheepish expression, one quite familiar to anyone who had known him as a teenager. When their stares grew expectant, he cleared his throat and spoke. "I might know someone," he hedged, leveling a pointed glance at Harry, "but you're not going to like it."


	15. Ch 10: Perplexity

**Chapter 10  
Perplexity**

"_Why?_" Harry demanded, the delighted twinkle in his eye sharpening into wariness. "_What_ exactly am I not going to like?"

Ron heaved a gusty sigh, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. "Look, Harry," he said, "I'm not even sure how much I can tell you, but I think I know someone who might be able to...to find something out." Ron's face took on the sheepish look usually reserved for when he was about to get in trouble with his mother. "Technically I'm not even supposed to know what this person does, so I'll have to get their say-so before I can even tell you who it is."

Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Sirius sat back in his chair. Hermione's expression tightened, eyes narrowed. Ron focused resolutely on Harry, but only after flicking a nervous glance at Hermione. "It's up to you, whether I ask or not," Ron plowed ahead, not waiting for anyone's verbal objection. "But you know I'd never risk this, not if I had the slightest reservation about...this person."

"There is someone you trust that implicitly?" Sirius interjected, disbelief coloring his features.

"Yes," Ron said, without hesitation.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look, wordlessly coming to an agreement. Sirius watched the two of them, admiring the unshakeable confidence built between the members of the Golden Trio. Finally he turned to Ron, nodding his head in assent.

"Okay," Ron said, leaning briefly back in his chair before rising from the table. "I'll have to do this in person," he said, striding over to where they'd hung up their cloaks. "Apparition wards are still up for the house, right, Harry?" he queried, swinging his cloak about his shoulders.

"Yeah," Harry replied, "back garden's what you want."

Ron grunted his approval and turned to make his way out. One pace from the door he turned and asked, "Oh, can someone else contact Neville, then? Not sure how long this will take."

"Certainly," Hermione piped up immediately. Ron gave a quick nod and strode out of the house.

…

A soft tread approached, creaking slightly as it hesitated at the threshold to his room. There was a hushed exchange, followed by a gentle rap on the heavy oak door. He recognized the voice of the witch who had found him, in frantic whispered conversation with one of the other mages. Another knock on the door, more forceful this time, and it swung slowly open, revealing the anxious face of the dark-haired healer. The witch hung back in the doorway, expression guarded. The healer made a harsh noise in his throat, which Loki disdained to acknowledge, instead staring straight ahead, watching them out of his peripheral vision.

The pair in the doorway exchanged a look, and the healer made the noise again, this time choosing to speak afterwards. "Loki," he said, voice level, "may I come in?"

The Asgardian turned a languid eye on the pair of them, focusing on the man's hesitant face with carefully constructed apathy. The curly-haired witch hovered just behind, tension radiating off her, brown speckled nose twitching once or twice in agitation. Loki noticed the healer's face again wore that slightly bemused expression, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, hovering between wry amusement and fond remembrance.

"Loki," he repeated, more insistent this time, "may I come in?"

Loki's mask of practiced boredom did not slip, despite the fact his patience with these *people* was running perilously short. With a quick exhalation he muttered, "If you must," before rolling his head back over onto his pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling once more.

He heard the witch's exasperated huff, and a half-chuckle low in the man's throat, before their twin footsteps sounded on the floorboards. His long, easy strides came around to the far side of the bed, whereas her quick steps soon stopped as she took up position between Loki and the door. Loki watched them out of his peripheral vision, refusing to make eye contact, although they had both trained their full attention on his face.

"This is where things stand," he said, pulling up an armchair to sit next to the bed. "Physically, your condition is stable, as you likely already knew yourself. You are healing well, we think, but very slowly. There may be potions we could give you, for pain and to speed the healing process, but since you are, well, not of this planet, I'm hesitant to administer them, based on my knowledge alone."

Loki gave him a shrewd glance out of the corner of his eye, but the man still showed no signs of dishonesty. Slowly he turned his head to consider the man, who met his gaze straight on, completely unperturbed. A long second passed before Loki gave a barely perceptible nod, indicating the man should continue.

"That is to say," he continued, taking off his spectacles and beginning to clean them with a small cloth as he spoke, "I think we could use some potions, but I'm not certain myself how safe they would be for you. I know a wizard, though, who would know better than I do. Hermione is going to call him, to see what he can do for you."

Loki's lips pressed into a thin disapproving line. The idea of being subjected to even more Midgardians was displeasing, if not downright discomfiting. The witch caught the hint of a scowl, and even though he was masking his thoughts as much as he could, her expression mirrored his in the next instant. Her frown was enough to convince Loki that he needed to play things as close with these...mages... as he did with his father.

The wizard - Harry, he suddenly remembered - had continued on, although whether he was purposefully ignorant or unintentionally oblivious of Loki's displeasure, the Asgardian did not know. He was apparently prattling on about this wizard's skills and intuition, and the supposed "benefit" his presence on Loki's "case" ought to provide. If these two insisted on assisting him with his recovery, then Loki had every intention of using their apparent altruism, however puny their efforts might be, to his advantage.

Loki's attention was drawn back to the conversation when the wizard, Harry, cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably, and began "Now, about your magic…"

For the first time, the man's demeanor changed from calmly professional to hesitant, even somewhat awkward. Loki recognized the mien as that of a bearer of bad tidings. Loki's nostrils flared, eyes flicking from witch to wizard and back again, searching for any sign of duplicity or hidden motive. The wizard was, as always, completely transparent, his eyes displaying unhappy uncertainty for anyone who looked at them. The witch, on the other hand, was on high alert, steely gaze very like that of Lady Sif, as though some injustice was being perpetrated that she was keen to stop.

"It's…" Loki breathed, and then stopped, unwilling to give voice to the outcome he feared and expected most. He took a deep breath, fixed his eyes on the witch, and began again. "You think it's gone."

She held his gaze and gave him the unflinching reply. "We don't know," she said simply. "There may be someone who can help, but until we know, there is nothing we can do."

_So_, Loki thought, and the tension which had been coiling in his gut was suddenly replaced with a lump of gnawing cold that spread like icy venom through his veins, leaving unfeigned lethargy in its wake.

"We didn't want to give you false hope," the wizard cut in, expression deepening into concern, "but I hope you don't give up entirely. Your magic may yet reassert itself, given enough time. I can't detect any yet, but your magical signature is, shall we say, unusual...it may be that we simply can't detect it properly."

At this the witch's frown reappeared, but she didn't contradict the wizard. Instead, she sat down on the edge of the bed and pushed a small metallic object into Loki's hand. The movement startled him out of his stupor, and he looked at it in confusion.

"What is this?" he queried, turning the thing over in his hand. It was a rectangular device of a silvery color, with a raised white ring slightly to one side, inscribed with odd, blocky symbols.

"Long recuperation is tiresome for anyone," Hermione said as she pulled a small coil of white cord out of her pocket. "This should help you endure it, at least somewhat." Loki watched as she unrolled the coil, and attached the silver bob at one end to the device he held, and laid the other ends of the white strands in his hand. Completely unsure how to proceed, he gave a slight frown. Hermione's mouth turned up at one corner, in an expression so mixed Loki couldn't place it. "Don't worry," she said, "it's a Muggle device, for playing music," she said, pointing out the 'buttons' on the device. "Circle in the middle to stop or start, arrows right and left to skip forward or backward, plus and minus at top and bottom to raise or lower the volume. These," she finished, picking up the slightly bulbous ends of the white cord she'd attached to it, "go in your ears."

Loki frowned again, skeptically, but perched the bulbs cautiously in his ears. They rested there comfortably enough. Hermione gave a curt nod of approval before he removed them again. She sat at the bedside in silence only for a moment longer, before taking his hands in hers, closing them around the gift and giving them a swift, reassuring pat.

Without another word, she rose from her seat and slipped out of the room.

Brows furrowed in exasperation, Loki turned to the wizard, who was again wearing an expression of barely suppressed amusement. "And how, precisely," Loki seethed, "is this supposed to help?"

The dark-haired man shrugged, a nonchalant gesture which only served to heighten Loki's annoyance. "I don't know," he admitted, "but if I know Hermione, there's an excellent chance that it will."


	16. Ch 11, Pt 1

Not long after, the whoosh of the Floo echoed in from the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld place. Just as Hermione and Harry reached the bottom of the stairs, a baritone rumble sounded from the other end of the room, accompanied by the sound of hands brushing off soot. "Harry? I'm here. Hermione? What's..."

They rounded the corner just in time to see Neville's look of surprise at Sirius, who was sitting with his feet propped up at the other end of the long table, grinning like a loon. Neville just stood there, not quite gaping, until Harry strode over and clapped his friend on the back. "Hermione told you we had another visitor, yeah?" he grinned, while Neville adjusted to the sight before him.

"She didn't, actually," he admitted, "but she did say I should be prepared for anything." Neville nodded his head bewilderedly, then exhaled, shaking off his amazement. "I wouldn't have thought that 'back from the dead' would be part of that 'anything'," he commented.

Sirius's smile twisted into a wry smirk. "Oh," he hinted, "it gets better."

Neville's eyebrows shot up, but before he could question him further, the fireplace again flared green, and Luna stepped out of the flames. To Sirius' recollection she was much unchanged, except that, like Harry and Hermione, her face had lost all of the round softness of childhood. She was still a diminutive little thing, small enough that when Harry gave her a friendly squeeze, his arm came to rest atop her shoulders. Neville, on the other hand, now towered more than a few inches above the rest of them, standing nearly a foot higher than the tiny blonde. He'd been an awkward teen when Sirius had last seen him, on the cusp of growing into himself, and grow into himself he had. If he hadn't been of such a retiring disposition, he would have cut quite an imposing figure, his shoulders now quite broad atop a solidly built frame. The contrast between the two new arrivals could not have been more stark.

As if to emphasize this very thought, Luna turned her lamp-like eyes on him with a mild, serene expression: the only indicator that she noticed Sirius at all was the slight raising of her eyebrows. "Thank you for inviting me," she said, slipping her arm around Harry's waist to return the half-hug. "I will be glad to help your new friend."

At this pronouncement, Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. "I'm not certain anyone would call us 'friends'," Harry remarked. "He's a patient."

Luna gave them both a serene yet knowing look. "For now," she mused, without further explanation.

After greetings and re-introductions were given all round, Harry began puttering in the kitchen, while Hermione and Sirius filled Neville and Luna in on their strange visitor, and the events that had led to him being under Harry's care in Grimmauld Place. When all had been explained, Neville let out a dry chuckle in amazement. "Astonishing," he breathed, shaking his head in wonder.

Sirius shot Neville a mischievous grin. "I meant it, didn't I?"

Neville gave a soft laugh in agreement. "I should have expected it, really," he smiled, casting a sidelong look at Hermione. "I mean, if it's at all extraordinary, the Golden Trio will find a way to be involved."

Hermione just rolled her eyes. "If you hadn't figured that out by second year, Neville," she commented dryly, "I would have sent you to St. Mungo's to have all your senses tested."

Neville flushed a little at her serious expression, but then he caught the twinkle in her eye. "Ought to have sent all of the professors and prefects in then," he teased, smile broadening, "since they never once caught you three _before_ you'd gotten into trouble. Right useless, the lot of them."

At this, Hermione's mouth quirked in a wry half-smile. "We were rather obvious, weren't we?" A brief flicker of fond reminiscence flitted across her face, and she placed a hand on Neville's arm. "Well, thank you for coming," she said, solemn expression taking in both Neville and Luna, "we need all the help we can get."

The savory aroma of cooking beef and herbs began to waft in from the kitchen, and both Sirius' and Hermione's stomachs rumbled in response. "I think I know what kind of help you two need at the moment," Neville chuckled as they stuck their heads into the alcove where Harry was pulling a steaming glass dish out of an oven. The rich scent was stronger now, and Harry put down the pan to pick up his wand, making shooing motions at the bundle of faces suddenly blocking his exit. The four of them scattered as Harry levitated the piping hot dish across the room, where it settled on top of a heat pad in the middle of the table. Piles of plates, forks, and spoons followed, laying themselves out in front of the five nearest chairs.

"Harry, you never cease to astound," Sirius commented happily as everyone took their seats around the table. He wafted the rising steam from the crock towards him, breathing in deeply.

"Why," he said giving his godson an impish wink, "this smells nearly good enough to eat!"

"You don't think I spent all those years cooking for the Dursleys without learning something, did you?" Harry teased, while levering out a portion of shepherd's pie for each of them. "Besides," he said, smile taking on a misty sadness, "I learned kitchen witchery from the best."

"Molly, you mean, surely," Sirius said, suddenly concerned. He turned a worried eye on Hermione. "She...you didn't say anything about her before. She's not..." his voice fell away, sorrow pinching his face.

Everyone else at the table looked saddened, but Harry shook his head firmly. "No," he reassured his godfather, "she's still alive. She's just..."

"Things have been difficult for her," Hermione interjected, brown eyes full of sorrow. "In the final battle, we lost George. That was the first blow to her spirit, and she never fully recovered," she continued. "Things weren't ever quite right after that. She seemed to be improving, but then Arthur passed last year ago, rather suddenly. His heart, they thought," she sighed, clearly pained for the family who had virtually adopted them all, "and between that and Percy, it was too much...too much grief," she finished in a harsh whisper.

"Percy?" Sirius questioned, clearly discomposed by the litany of trouble which had been visited upon the Weasleys.

"Percy the prat," Hermione spat, arms folding over her chest in a fit of temper. "He never really came back around, even after..."

"He tried," Harry interrupted, laying a gentle hand on Hermione's arm, and her ire visibly subsided. The moment that passed between them was one of an argument that had long ago been talked out, left unresolved by mutual agreement.

Sirius watched the pair of them for a moment longer, before shaking his head sadly. "Family," he

sighed, "hardest people in the world to live with, in far too many cases. Especially when you're not who they expect you to be." His shaggy head came to rest on his hand, cheek leant in his open palm. His eyes met Harry's, who nodded. "Yes," Sirius confirmed, "I can see that story from both sides, too. Great expectations," he mused, idly tracing lazy circles with his fork in the gravy on his plate, "set everyone up for disappointment. I couldn't say who's right, or who's more unhappy – parent or child."

In the silence that followed, Luna spoke up for the first time during the meal. "The one with the fewest allies, of course."

Hermione scowled a bit at this, but detected no malice from Luna, either in voice or face. She was simply looking past Sirius' head, towards the stairs. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered if Luna was talking about the same thing as the rest of them.

Without a word, the younger woman took the full dish in front of her, stood, and ascended the stair, never taking her eyes off that same point in the distance.

The rest of the table exchanged a look. Sirius gave each the younger people in the room an inquiring look, but Harry shook his head. "It's fine," he said without further explanation. "Luna just operates a little differently, is all."

Hermione let out a tiny sigh, but refrained from commenting. Neville gave her a sympathetic nod, and the tension in her shoulders relaxed somewhat. "I'm not certain who I'm more concerned for, but you're right, Harry," she relented. "Luna can handle herself."

With that the odd mood passed, leaving the four of them nothing else to do but finish their meal in silence.


End file.
